Stockholm Syndrome
by helio5igma
Summary: Months after the events of Reichenbach, John has unknowingly let a serial killer move into Baker St. in an attempt to move on from Sherlock's death. Sherlock finds he can't stay away. JohnLock, OMC/John, SLASH, rated M for violence and sex in later CHs.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Dear me, I haven't written fanfiction in ages. Excuse me if I'm rusty. This gets off to a bit of a slow start, but let it build - there'll be some rewarding experiences in the end, I promise. The story switches perspectives as it progresses, so watch for the narrative shifts.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters but Niles Cohen.

**Warning:** There will be graphic scenes later on. I will put in appropriate warnings, especially for the gory one, and attempt to make it skipable if you are so ill inclined. This is also a slash fanfiction. There is a hearty amount of man on man action. You have been warned.

Otherwise, please do enjoy, and let me know what you think!

* * *

><p>It never occurred to him that cleaning up the apartment would make it look so empty. He had opted to keep most of Sherlock's books - the bare shelves would be too much to look at, and he didn't have nearly enough on his own to fill them - and his damned skull, which still sat on the mantelpiece along with the other oddities that adorned it. The clutter that filled the living room and kitchen had been put away - discarded science projects, the convoluted system of glassware and tubing that occupied the kitchen table, the case notes and scribbles that sprawled across the rug, a mostly-full bottle of spray paint from that run-in with the Black Lotus -<p>

John gripped the box of his former flat mate's possession's tightly, his left hand shaking against the cardboard.

It was hard. It was so damnably hard.

He'd almost wanted to burn it all - toss the notes and books and scribbles into the fire and forget it. Sell everything to a school - God knows he'd need the money - or a museum and tell them to make an exhibition. Leave Baker Street altogether. But part of John Watson, army doctor, bachelor of the art of Sherlock Holmes, told him he needed this. He needed Baker Street, needed the notes, needed the reminder.

Because he bloody well missed him.

"Dear? I've brought you some tea. Oh, and try these tarts, they're fresh out the oven!"

There was a clatter of old heels at the doorstep and Mrs. Hudson appeared, a silver tray bouncing in her hands. There was a kindly smile on the old woman's face, and John breathed a sigh and nodded, collapsing into the big puffy armchair by the fire.

"I don't understand it, Mrs. Hudson. It doesn't… it just doesn't feel right."

She set the tray down and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Of course not… it never will be the same in here. No more gunfire, obscenely loud bangings… I'll never catch a police car outside again, you know. Oh - " Mrs. Hudson took in a shuddering breath, and John looked up to catch her eyes tearing.

"Oh now, Mrs. Hudson, let's not get ourselves worked up. Today's a busy day, isn't it? We've got work to do, right? Right. Off we go, then. Thank - er. Thank you for the tea," he said, clearing his voice to get the quiver out of it. He guided the landlady downstairs, shut the door behind her. He was angry. Angry and depressed and stressed beyond belief. What was he doing, clearing up Sherlock's old equipment? Packing his things? Phoning for flat mates?

_Moving on, John, _his therapist would say. _It's a healthy move for you._

He didn't want healthy. The number of prospective movers-in he'd turned down already was proof enough of that.

There was a quiet knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson entered again, no tray this time, just a bit of smeared makeup around her eyes and an uncertain smile. The landlady looked tired from her cry, but she was trying to be sweet despite how terribly their last attempts at finding a replacement - John grimaced at the word, replacement - at finding someone to help with the rent had gone.

"John, dear, there's a young man in to see you. Says he called about the room."

John steadied himself, took in a breath, puffed out his chest, nodded. He exhaled.

"Send him in, then."

He was a tall young man, slender and pale, a handsome face and a strong jaw framing a friendly smile. He was dressed smartly, a formal pair of pinstriped suit pants and a collared deep burgundy shirt, tight-fitting, sleeves rolled. _Sherlock might've worn that, _John mused to himself, but kicked the thought violently from his mind. And though John would swear every which way his preferences excluded men, he couldn't help but admit he was nice to look at. Even the shock of green hair, mussed and partly in his face, was a tasteful shade.

"Thank you ma'am," he said to Mrs. Hudson, bowing his head and offering the old woman a grateful smile . He took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of a handshake before she disappeared downstairs. He was well-mannered, at least. Seemed respectable. John offered his hand stiffly.

"John Watson."

"Niles Cohen, pleasure to meet you."

They locked eyes and John attempted a smile, for propriety's sake. Now that he was paying proper attention to it, John found the resemblance the younger man bore to the detective alarming. The arched line of his eyebrows and shape of his eyes - the cheekbones, though, were much different. John was glad for that. He wasn't sure how he'd feel about living with an almost-Sherlock. Slipping back out of his reverie, he found Niles staring at his face. The taller man blinked for a moment before bursting into a cheery laugh. John feared the worst - recognition from a fan of Sherlock's, or even from someone who watched the news was the last thing he needed.

"Say, you're that doctor from St. Bart's, aren't you? The one who's always nodding off?" Niles grinned, and John let himself smile, if only in relief.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Uh, yes, I am."

"I've just started at the surgery," he said, gesturing at his chest. "Cardio department. We won't have met, but I've heard about you."

John's brow furrowed at him. Cardio at the surgery? He didn't look a year over twenty, and something told John he didn't work there as an intern or a nurse.

"Aren't you a bit young?"

"Early starter, I guess." Niles shrugged, providing no further explanation. John sighed and nodded. This was awkward, all of this, but he had to move through the motions, and he didn't feel like getting bogged down in Niles Cohen's personal details.

"Right. Right - um. About the room."

"Yes, of course - I called yesterday, wanted to come in and take a look."

"Yes, well. Right." John kicked himself into motion, moving past Niles and into the kitchen, cleared as it was of body parts and fermenting organs. "Kitchen's in here, standard stuff. Sink, counter, fridge." He frowned at the chemical burns and stains on the kitchen table. "Table. It - um. I've never really eaten on it…"

"More of a workspace, then?" inquired Niles, who had joined him in the kitchen. He ran a finger along a dark stain where Sherlock had spilled a vial of iodine. The stain still hadn't been pulled up, mostly for lack of effort. John blinked at the gesture, shook his head and dismissed it.

"Something like that, yeah." He wasn't about to tell him the kitchen table was used more for chemical experiments more than food consumption. Luckily, he didn't ask any more questions, only looked and followed the doctor as he lead him about.

"There's a fireplace there, chimney. Have you got many books?" he said, looking around at Sherlock's collection, still on the shelves, and swallowing hard.

"I can confine them to my room, don't worry. Are you alright?" There was something like concern in the young man's voice and John turned to look at him, finding his eyes trained on John's. Something felt strange about him - an air of eccentricity John only really picked up around a handful of people. There was an almost off-putting energy in the young man's frame, in his face and in his eyes - steely blue-grey, like Sherlock's, John thought, but with a decidedly different edge - that felt out of place in a man that stood so calm and still. "Listen, I know this is a bit of a hard time for you," said Niles, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets and taking a step towards John. The doctor stood his ground. "If it's bad, I can - well. I can come back some other time, or not at all."

There was some comfort in that notion. So few of Baker Street's prospective tenants were understanding, or at least playing at being understanding in the name of getting the room. John was eased by the idea that it wasn't an obligation, wasn't a necessity - even if he did need someone to pay the rent.

"You two were… pretty close, weren't you? You and your flat mate?"

John looked at the young man for a minute, bit his lip and nodded his head.

"Yeah. Best friend."

"I'm sorry."

John hadn't put out much. The details were everywhere in the press already - the "fraud" detective's suicide, the murder of "actor" Richard Brooke, the quiet _bachelor_ John Watson, disappearing into his apartment at 221B Baker Street, not speaking to a soul and punching journalists in the face. It had taken months for the media to forget him, longer for him to muster the courage to put out an ad.

"Watch the news at all, do you?"

"Nah, I hate current events. Got much more pressing things on the mind when you're digging around in people's chests."

John chuckled. Maybe this would be alright. He almost needed someone who didn't know about it, someone who wouldn't be spouting constant reminders, even if Niles was another tall, slender, pale man with a classy taste in dress. But there was still something - something he couldn't accept about having a new person inhabiting Baker Street. He shook his head, balled and unballed his fists.

Niles looked at his feet, looked around at the room. He reached over and put a firm hand on John's shoulder that the soldier was too distracted to shrug off.

"Why don't _you_ take his room, Dr. Watson?" he offered, and John was struck by how genuine he was being. He looked up at Niles uncertainly. Comforting. His expression, his tone - they were strangely comforting, for being a stranger. Perhaps it was his bedside manner.

"What, his - his room? I couldn't…"

"Shh, yes you could. Would he really mind?"

John was taken aback by the idea. Sherlock's room. It had been years - all the rearranging, the cleaning, he hadn't dared go in. He hadn't even let Mrs. Hudson go in and rearrange a thing. Could he really? Could he sleep in that bed, surrounded by those things? _You're not about to let anyone else do it, are you? _The realization was a certain and unsurprising one, almost a liberating one. John looked Niles in the eye and nodded_._

"I think I will. Take his room, I mean. Would you like to see the other one?"

"I'd love to, Dr. Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: And now for our favorite detective! Excuse the shortness of this, but I've decided each perspective shift will be its own chapter. Don't worry, Sherlock won't always be so brief. 

* * *

><p>The world's only consulting detective was perplexed.<p>

It was logical, perfectly practical for John Watson to inquire after other roommates. Rent needed to be paid, and hundred-dollar case payments weren't exactly rolling in. It made sense. Mycroft had asked him if the whole thing upset him - he'd denied it. Of course he wasn't upset, why would he be? It was healthy and proper for John to be moving on. It had been years with no contact, not even a whisper - that's what anyone would do. But John Watson was not just anyone - that's what Sherlock Holmes believed.

But he was human, Sherlock knew that, too. Human beings craved attention, social connection, company. Stupid, insipid ideals. Still, Sherlock could hardly hold this new roommate against him. It would be exceedingly unreasonable to do so.

And so, Sherlock was perplexed. He was not an unreasonable fellow, and yet here he was, being… agitated. Yes, that was the word. Agitated. But why?

Sherlock needed to look into this new flat mate of John's. There had to be a logical reason he was upset.


	3. Chapter 3

"Coffee, Dr. Watson?"

John shook his head, his nose buried in an article about a string of missing invalids. No bodies, no signs of struggle, no apparent connections. They were people of all ages and all backgrounds - sharing only the facts that they were terminally ill, and that they lived either at home or in hospices. The police had found no leads, no fingerprints, no witnesses.

"Sherlock would have loved this case," John murmured, not realizing he'd spoken out loud.

"Sorry?"

"Oh - " John coughed and folded the newspaper, setting it on the coffee table. "Nothing. Coffee - yes, sure." He stood up, moving slowly into the kitchen. His leg was feeling stiff again, his limp returning in the face of a - God, he hated to say it - "normal" life. There was no more running around the city for him, no more chasing cabs or mysterious gunmen or phantom, drug-induced hounds. Niles was an interesting conversationalist when he was around: talked of medicine, of work, of his curious patients, of his studies abroad. He was friendly and cheerful and a little strange, and John saw his resemblance to Sherlock diminish in that aspect, but Niles was hardly ever home. He spent most of his time at the surgery, or… well, at the surgery. The boy was almost unhealthy devoted to his work. What was it about John and living with workaholics?

"You sure? The caffeine won't help that tremor."

John looked down at his left hand, clenched it quickly to stop it from shaking. Niles was observant, too. He was an analytical mind, and from what John had heard, quite the intelligent one. Couldn't John just, for once, be able to keep his personal details to himself?

"You know what? Nevermind. I'll pass on that." John grabbed his coat, his keys, and his phone and beelined for the door. He didn't' feel like being at Baker Street, didn't feel like being around people, really.

"Dr. Watson - wait." John stopped at the door.

"What?"

"Oh, come on. We've been living together for a good few weeks now and I can't even be a little bit concerned?"

John turned to his new flat mate, saw the concern in his eyes and the crease in his brow, too deep a crease for a young face like Niles'. He sighed, feeling a little bit guilty. There he was, a busy young surgeon with a stressful schedule, a human being taking the time to worry after him, and he was being rude.

"Sorry, look. I'm not… not feeling well. Just need a bit of air."

"Oh, alright, well - " Niles looked down at the reports he had sprawled across his desk, at his laptop, then closed it with a snap and stood up, gathering his own coat from the back of his chair. "You know what I think? I think you need a drink."

"No, I think I'd really rather not."

"Well, too bad, I'm insisting. Mrs. Hudson tells me you haven't had a night out in ages, and a man does need to unwind. Come on, let's go. Besides, all the company I've had in a while have been anesthetized. It'll be good for the both of us, I'm sure!"

Niles was all bright and cheery and stubborn, ushering John out into the hall and cutting off his excuses and retorts. It was a familiar disregard for John's protests, barked commands and persuasive phrases - even if they did lack the power and outright dominance that Sherlock's had. John finally agreed. He couldn't refute that alcohol sounded lovely. 

* * *

><p>AN: Stay tuned for drunken Watsons!


	4. Chapter 4

The walls of Sherlock's room were covered in papers. Newspaper clippings, journal articles, printed profiles with bits of webpage. _Niles Cohen_ was the name scrawled across the lot of them - Niles Cohen, the green-haired, pretty face of cardiovascular surgery, Niles Cohen, young and brilliant, England-born, German-learned, medical prodigy. Sherlock tossed a crumpled piece of paper down at the floor in frustration. His record was clean. There was not so much a hint of criminal activity, of unsavory behavior - the man might well have been a saint for all the lack of evil that was in his past. The only potentially questionable thing about the boy was his sexual preference, but that was hardly proper reason for the detective. But that couldn't be. No man was devoid of issues, and genius - especially the sort that excelled at the study of humanity - came with often superlative problems.

Sherlock dropped himself down onto the edge of his bed, crumpling newspapers beneath him. He closed his eyes, his palms meeting in front of his face, his mind preparing to delve -

His phone beeped, loud and audacious.

_Hope you haven't dipped back into the recreationals. -MH_

_Piss off, _he wanted to say. But instead he ignored it. Only glanced at it when it beeped again.

_He seems to be getting on fairly well. -MH _

Sherlock's lips twitched. Was he really having such an issue with John's roommate being a possible homosexual? Why would he? That would imply some level of protectiveness, of jealousy - and those were emotions, things he deemed long ago not worth the time. His surveillance had awarded him with the information that they were rarely at home together, rarely spent time together, rarely even interacted, except their most recent outing to the pubs. Sherlock scoffed at himself. He was not so petty, so inane as to be jealous that somebody else was living with John Watson. They had been colleagues - no, Sherlock corrected, they had been friends. It was a strange concept, friendship, but Sherlock accepted it in the case of his former flat mate - John deserved at least that. Even so, John had the right to live with whomever he wanted, to drink with whomever he wanted. He'd drunken with Stamford and his old friends often enough when they were living together, hadn't he?

His phone beeped again..

_I could provide a distraction, if you are otherwise unengaged. -MH_

He growled. He wasn't concerned with what was going on in London. Sherlock turned on his side, his eyes falling to a news article pinned beneath his right elbow. Nine missing persons, all on their deathbeds, all disappeared without a trace, without a struggle. He had been mulling over it on and off, trying to stave off the boredom. Perhaps he was just bored, perhaps that was all this was - all of this needless research - boredom.

Sherlock sighed, scouring the article on his bedspread. Nine non-connected victims that simply vanished into thin air, over the span of a month and a half.

Sherlock's eyes widened. When had Niles Cohen moved back to London? A month and a half ago? He scrambled up from the bed, gathered up newspapers, gathered up blog entries, gathered up updates from his personal pages. The dates coincided. The first disappearance, only a week after Niles' arrival. A respected medical official, recently arrived from traveling abroad, devoted to his work, devoid of social interaction, along with the deathly ill victims - so easily accessed by someone with a medical degree - it was a long-shot, but Sherlock couldn't simply ignore it. John was living with him, after all.

He snatched up his phone, firing off a quick message to his brother before beginning to stuff papers and articles of clothing into a bag.

_Busy. See you in London. -SH_


	5. Chapter 5

Niles was quite sure the doctor was knackered. Even the familiar turns of Baker Street seemed alien to him, the slurs of his voice promising that the metal numbers on their apartment door were warping and blurring into the navy blue paint and that the streetlamps were full of angry bees.

"Are you - are you _quite_ sure this is the place?"Niles supported the doctor beneath his good shoulder, fumbling with the keys to the apartment as he opened the door. The doctor had had approximately six glasses of gin, two mixed drinks, and five beers. Niles had slowly sipped at about half of that over the course of the evening. He had no intention of being without his wits that night. John Watson had a nice tolerance for a such a little man - Niles had the military to thank for that, he supposed - but even he could hardly stand under the influence of so much alcohol.

"Yes, Doctor, of course it is. See? Right key and everything. Up you get then!"

He heaved him up the stairs, the doctor's weight becoming more and more cumbersome the higher they went. For a small man, he could be surprisingly heavy.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, you blessed woman, we're home!"

"Shh, it's nearly three in the morning. Let's not wake the dear lady, hm?"

"Oh, oh shhhhh…" said the very inebriated John Watson, a finger pushing his lip up to touch the bottom of his nose before his shushing devolved into a giggle. Niles shook his head and carried him up and to the living room of 221B. There the doctor tugged away from him, collapsing into his big puffy armchair.

"God - that was too much… just, too much gin. When did we get a dog?" he said, chuckling uncontrollably as he looked at some of the boxes that still littered the living room. Niles followed his stared to the skull sitting atop one of them, a small smile on his lips. The doctor certainly was amusing in this state.

"Dr. Watson, that's a skull. Not even a dog skull - "

"Oh hush, Sherlock, I know. It's a friend of yours, you said! I thought that was so _queer_."

Niles's attention snapped back to the doctor, a look of concern on his features. He stepped to the doctor's chair and knelt in front of it. Sherlock, he had said. Niles had figured from the looks, from the mumblings and sighing that the some of the things he did and said - wore, perhaps, even - struck a cord with John, but he hadn't guessed to what extent. It was silly, most likely just a drunken mistake, but it was surprising all the same.

"Dr. Watson?"

John moved suddenly, his hands reaching out and grabbing him on either side of the face, squishing his cheeks in, bringing him close. Their noses touched. Niles could smell the gin, the beer, the desperation on him.

"I've always - you know - always - "

"Doctor - John. John? It's me, Niles. Moved in a week or two ago. See? Funny green hair?" He tugged at a strand of it and watched John's face, which had lowered almost to his chest. He was quiet for some time, and Niles almost thought he'd fallen asleep. But then -

"I know," he whispered.

The sadness in that sentence brought a frown to the young surgeon's face, and he lifted a hand to the doctor's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Niles was used to having to do this, lend a hand to the weary, the teary, the forlorn. He face fell into its familiar contours: the worried frown, the raised eyebrows, the soft eyes. "John…" his voice was soft, soothing, practiced.

"I _know_."

The doctor buried his face in his hands, his chest beginning to heave - Niles recognized the motion. When he spoke his voice quivered the slightest bit, his shoulders shook just enough - the man was trying not to sob. Niles licked his lips, but didn't speak. What was he supposed to do with this?

"I just… God, I miss him," John said into his hands. "I miss his stupid curly hair and the stupid way he turned his collar up to look cool, and his stupid bloody cheekbones - " the doctor's voice hitched in the midst of his frantic gesturing. "I miss his stupid - stupidity! God, he was terrible - right awful with people. Didn't know how in the world to deal with presents properly." John paused, sighed deeply, sniffled violently. "But he was bloody brilliant. Sheer genius. He could - he could look at your clothes and the way you walked and tell you everything from what you did twenty years ago to what you ate for breakfast that morning on the train!"

A flag went up in the back of Niles' head. The doctor was still ranting, but he couldn't listen now. _Tell you everything? _he thought. He couldn't help but be intrigued. What would the great Sherlock Holmes have said about him? He'd heard of him, of course. Heard of him and dear John Watson, trusty companion and friend. Heard of their deep ties to the Yard, hints of their connections to the government. Heard that the media and the police stayed away from Baker Street as a general rule, now that they'd grown tired of pestering the poor inhabitants for stories and, now that Sherlock was gone, help. In the wake of Sherlock Holmes Baker Street had become something of a haven, a loophole, a perfect place for people who wanted their comings and goings to stay out of the public eye. People like him. He hadn't ever seen the man in action, but the idea of him sent a pleasant tingle down Niles' spine. Genius like that should never go unappreciated. But the doctor's rant had dissolved into quiet, shuddering gasps - carefully controlled sobs. His attention snapped back to the present.

"John, come on. Let's get you to bed. You need some rest." He moved without asking, slipping an arm under the doctor's and lending him the support of his frame. John stood and moved with him obediently. Niles would have given anything to take a look in the detective's bedroom. All the notes, the records of his brilliance - the man would have been an interesting course of study. But the young surgeon had figured John would never let another soul see the place, and offering the bedroom switch was what cemented his stay in Baker Street in the first place. No, he'd have to settle for a quick glance now, after he put the good doctor to bed.

He was quiet as they moved towards John's bedroom, only stopping when Niles reached for the doorknob. John pulled away from him again, reaching for it himself.

"I've got it from here, I think."

"John, you couldn't make it up the stairs on your own."

The door creaked as John leaned on it, breathing deeply, trying to keep himself steady. Niles watched him like a hawk, saw the gears turning in what was left coherent of his brain. He was about to be disappointed.

"Sorry - it's just - " John looked at the door, at his feet. Niles gave his shoulder a pat.

"It's alright. I understand."

John only nodded, leaned the door open and slipped in, shutting it behind him. Niles could hear the sound of him shuffling around, bumping into a nightstand, then a long pause. He could almost imagine him standing over the bed, contemplating it, contemplating the room around him. The poor man must have been smitten.

"John, if you need anything, anything at all, I'll be right here, 'kay?"

He didn't answer, but Niles knew he'd heard him. He also knew he couldn't move, couldn't leave, not until he heard John hit the bed.

Which, incidentally, only took another twenty minutes. Niles loved alcohol.


	6. Chapter 6

John was absolutely sure he was missing his liver. Or his stomach. Or the better half of his brain. There had to be something to explain the incredible lack of hangover pain he was feeling. John woke up quite comfortable, nestled into Sherlock's old bed underneath blankets. _Blankets?_

John bolted upright, looking down at himself, at the bed. He could never get used to waking up in this room, but that wasn't what bothered him. He tugged at his shirt. Hadn't he been wearing something over it? No, this was a new shirt entirely. He threw off the covers and leapt to his feet, but immediately regretted it. He wasn't sick to his stomach, no, but sudden movements were still far from a good idea.

"Niles!" he called, getting to his feet again and moving - more slowly this time - to the door and out of it. He worked his way through the empty hallway, leaning against the doorway to the living room and rubbing

his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"_Niles_!"

The young surgeon stepped out of the kitchen, stirring a cup of coffee.

"G'morning, John. How are you - "

"You went into the room last night."

"Sorry?"

John bit his lip, his fists clenching in irritation.

"You _went into my room._ Into his - you went into _that_ room!" John flung his arm back, gesturing violently down the hallway at Sherlock's old room. He couldn't believe the nerve, the invasion of privacy, in infringement upon Sherlock's - upon _his_ personal space. John had expressed several times over the course of their first few weeks that his bedroom was off-limits, and Niles had agreed to that wholeheartedly. Niles sighed, setting his coffee cup down on the table.

"Yeah, I did."

"Yeah - okay." John ran a hand over his face, shifting the weight off of his right leg. "Why?"

The surgeon shrugged, walking closer to the doctor and gesturing at his face.

"Have you smelled your breath this morning, John?" he said, making John frown. He licked his lips - they tasted wretched, so did the inside of his mouth.

"You've had water since, but you can probably still taste it. I'm a doctor, John. Any assumptions I might have about us being friends aside, what kind of _physician_ would I be if I left my own flat mate to choke on his own vomit?"

John felt a pang of shame. He didn't like relying on people, certainly not people he'd only known for a few weeks - well, aside from the obvious, but that was a special case - and he certainly didn't like the idea of making a fool out of himself.

"You didn't have to take care of me."

"Well, yes, actually, I did." Niles slid his hands into his trouser pockets, his shoulders rolling. "You'd never forgive yourself if you made a mess of those sheets, and I don't particularly enjoy the company of a depressed Dr. Watson. Luckily enough I got a bin over in time… couldn't save the shirt, though. Oh, don't give me that face - there wasn't much to it, and you weren't so bad. Just needed a bit of a clean-up, a bit of water, and a few B12's to make sure you didn't feel wretched in the morning."

John chewed his lip and turned away. Sure, it was nice to know he was being looked after, but it was still a particularly forward display of worry, and the implication of dependency wasn't a concept the army doctor very much enjoyed. Niles seemed to read the apprehension in his face, sighing again and attempting a smile.

"Look, John, I'm sorry. First and last time, right? I promise."

John looked at him, at the apology written in his face, and caved. He was too tired to keep on being frustrated, and ostracizing a generally pleasant flat mate wasn't going to do him any good. He let out the breath he'd been holding and walked out to his arm chair, collapsing into it and leaning his head back against the cushion.

"It's fine. It's - it's fine." He rested his face in his hand, massaging away the light throb of a headache he'd developed from the agitation. "Thanks."

Niles smiled, though he seemed taken aback by the gratitude.

"It was my fault you were that drunk anyway, so it was my responsibility to make sure you were alright," he said simply, sipping at his cup of coffee. "No problem at all."

"No, the - for the going out, too. For drinks. It was good. Good… distraction. It helped."

The young surgeon's face cracked into a grin.

"Good. Good, I'm glad. Coffee?" John nodded.

"Yeah, a bit."

"I've got to pop into work for a bit today. Care to come along?"

John accepted his cup of coffee, giving Niles a look over the brim.

"What, to the surgery? No offense, but I'm not so enamored with it that I want to be there on my days off."

Niles laughed, downing the rest of his coffee in one go.

"No, but I haven't explained why I offered yet."

"Ah."

John looked up at him expectantly, honestly a little surprised. He wasn't so used to people telling him _why_ he wanted to go about and do things, just that he was going to go about and do things. Part of him thought it was a little bit refreshing… part of him had to admit he missed the mystery.

"They found one of the victims, alive, but in a bad way. You know, from that lot of disappearances they've been talking about in the papers. I fixed her up yesterday, going in to check on her now. I think the Yard's coming in to ask a few questions…?"

The doctor looked at him, his mouth opened just slightly. The prospect of participating in an investigation - no, Niles had never said anything about participation. Still, he was deathly curious. He wanted to know how it ended, and he needed something - anything to occupy his time. He didn't exactly have anything else to do that day.

"Alright. Why not?"


	7. Chapter 7

The hospital was bustling with activity. News crews, police officials turning away news crews, the general hospital staff - people rushing about mindlessly following orders, following routine. Sherlock scoffed at them. Crowds of nurses, of doctors, people of supposedly higher intellect and advanced education, refusing to use their minds to see what was in front of them. Or, in his case, in the midst of them. He had not found much use for disguises, not at first, but they were vital to him now, his professionally fake mustache, wrinkles, and salt and pepper hair keeping the attention of the crowds away from him. He had other help, though, in the form of Niles Cohen's one female survivor.

He watched from the hallway as Lestrade entered the woman's room, reading happy-again marriage into his properly ironed shirt and new watch. No one seemed to notice him, or to care that he was there - a particularly pleasant perk of his chosen costume. Even the DI had glanced his way upon approaching the room, but hadn't given him more than a hurried good morning. Pushing his props - a misappropriated cleaner's cart and mop - closer to the door he peered inside, eyes narrowing as he spotted the familiar profile of one weary-looking John Watson hovering at the elbow of the slim figure that must have belonged to the young surgeon.

"Do you remember his face at all, miss? Any distinguishing features?" Lestrade was asking. Sherlock's mouth twitched. Lip-reading was, as always a very useful skill, and he was constantly glad to have picked it up. He only wished the detective inspector would say something _important_.

The young woman on the bed was harder to read, her lips moving only slightly, haltingly. Sherlock confessed himself perplexed. The woman read like a victim - traumatized, shy, broken. She seemed to retreat into herself every time the detective inspector spoke, avoiding eye contact with all - except for Niles Cohen. Sherlock frowned as he observed them. The woman, clinging so fervently to her surgeon's hand like it was a lifeline. The surgeon, holding her tenderly, hands like a baby's cradle, stroking, soothing. Was she frightened of him? Had he threatened her? No - Sherlock scrutinized her face, her body language through the glass. There was legitimate trust, almost intimacy between them - in the way she held him close to her, the way she hid behind him. Legitimate trust. Interesting.

"Please, miss, anything that would help us catch him. Anything that'll keep this from happening again."

"Inspector, please. Miss Puckett has been through a terrible time. Couldn't this wait? Even a day or two - " Sherlock scoffed at the surgeon. What a transparent display of concern. Everyone else would be fooled, of course - the boy's expression was exquisitely crafted. He was buying more time for himself, of course - _No, that isn't right at all,_ he told himself. _Why would she be here at all, unless he wanted her to be? _

"Wait - wait, please!"

The men in the room were startled. Sherlock focused his attention on the woman, whose eyes held a weak determination. She gave her surgeon's hand a squeeze, and he returned the gesture.

"I-I want to help," she was saying. "I don't want… it to happen again…"

Lestrade nodded and took out his notepad.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Puckett."

In the next few moments it became increasingly clear to Sherlock why Niles had allowed the woman to live, allowed her to come to the police. It was clear from the description she gave, an exact portrait of one of the other missing persons. _False information_, Sherlock hissed to himself. _He's leading them to the wrong man. _

Sherlock looked up from the woman on the bed, held his breath as he found himself locking eyes with the young surgeon. He lowered his face, staring up at Niles Cohen from underneath the janitor's cap he'd procured for the situation.

_I know who you are,_ he said to him. The boy's face smiled at him. It was not a lay-man's smile, not a pleasant greeting. It was the smirk of a predator, Sherlock had seen many like it, and it was unmistakable. Sherlock was certain - he had to get him away from John.


	8. Chapter 8

John hadn't felt quite so involved with anything in months. Niles had told him his findings in the OR, given him the file - breach of patient confidentiality, of course, but no one needed to know about that - let him ask the poor girl a few questions before Lestrade arrived. And when she had described the man…

"That's - one of the victims, isn't it? Or, well, one of the other ones who disappeared. Isn't so much a victim, I suppose," John had said, adding, "I've sort of… been… following along. In the papers…" when Lestrade gave him a look.

The DI had gone away satisfied, even if Niles had cut the interview short for the sake of his patient's peace and quiet. John couldn't help but feel a bit of respect for the younger doctor - he was a truly caring individual, and it showed. He turned to him, catching him smiling at the door. It was an odd smile - one he rarely saw on Niles' face. Not a grin, nothing cheeky, just a sly, subtle upturn of the lips. It was the sort Sherlock had, whenever he'd gotten something devious into his mind. The reminder made John's insides squirm.

"Thinking of anything interesting?" John ventured.

"What? Oh - " Niles let out a quiet laugh. "Yes, and no, really. Mostly I'm glad the bastard's getting caught." He gave Miss Puckett's hand another good pat. "Are you going to be okay, love? I'll come back and check up on you again tomorrow, alright? We'll take good care of you, don't you fret."

The girl protested, but Niles shushed her, tucked her in, stroked her hair. He was like a brother, or a lover, John thought - it was almost inappropriate, but it seemed to work. He'd seen enough of Niles when they occasionally had the same shifts to know he was like that with everyone. Soft, gentle, almost too caring for his own good. It made the doctor smile a little - Niles had a manner about him that brightened a room, a humor that seemed to lift the spirits of any patient he was dealing with. It was… admirable.

When they left the hospital Niles seemed lost in thought, his gaze focused out the window during the taxi ride home.

"Are you always like that with people?"

Niles blinked, turning his attention back to him.

"Always like what?"

"Overly… I don't know, friendly."

"Overly friendly?" Niles' brow furrowed. "What do you - oh! You mean with Miss Puckett, and with you - overly friendly…" the young doctor chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose I am. Sorry - is that bad?"

"Well, I'm sure every place has its rules about doctor-patient… you know. But I don't think you've got malicious intentions in this case, so - no. No, not really." The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile - if only a bit of one. Niles had that smile again, but it was wider this time.

"No?"

He looked Niles over, caught the curious expression on his face, the neat line he cut in his suit. Before he caught himself staring he looked away.

"No."

Niles laughed, drumming his fingers on his knee.

"Well, she's a bit too young for me, anyway. Not my area, besides."

John frowned, blinking at the boy sitting across the seat from him.

"Not your - oh. Oh, so you're into - okay. Well." He licked his lips nervously and Niles caught his apprehension, his cheeks immediately pinking.

"Oh God - I thought you knew! I'm sorry - I - yeah, is that… d'you mind that?"

John open and shut his mouth a few times, at a loss for words. There was nothing wrong with it, of course - John was everything but judgmental - but something about it did make him feel a little uncomfortable.

"No. No, it's fine, but… well, it would have been nice to know. You did… sort of change my clothes - "

"It was just your shirt," Niles said quickly, letting out a little nervous laugh as the cab stopped in front of the Baker Street apartment. "Besides, John… I'm a doctor, remember? I operate on male patients all the time. I know when to be clinical and when to be… sentimental."

He was out before John could reply, and it was all that he could do not to just sit in the cab and let it take him somewhere else. Heaving a sigh, he slipped out after Niles.

"And which one was it, then?"

It was a damn bold question, but Niles didn't answer. He was staring very intently at the door, which was slightly ajar, the black scuff marks around the lock mechanism telling them it had been forced that way. In a way, John was glad at the distraction. He had kind of been assuming, the way Niles acted around him - but again, he was like that with most people. John liked to be certain of these things. There were looks he caught sometimes, when the surgeon didn't think he could see him. John saw something in his eyes, something that ran deeper than the expressions in his face. He wasn't sure how he'd react if Niles answered that way - he'd never had that sort of attention from a man before.

Well, he had. But he couldn't count that. Sherlock's stares had been something else, he was sure. The man was self-stated to be married to his work, after all. The thought of the detectives eyes made him uncomfortable, something stirring in him that he wasn't sure how to respond to. The intensity Niles' eyes held, the similarity in color, in shape - that wasn't helping, either. It was a good thing right now they were focused on the door.

Taking a breath, Niles pushed it open slowly, stepping into the entranceway.

"John! Niles!" There was a rush of hurried footsteps down the hall and a frantic Mrs. Hudson approached them, hands wringing.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John took their landlady into a protective embrace, clasping her hands securely. He looked from the door to the staircase, which Niles was taking two steps at a time. "What's going on?"

"Oh, John, it's terrible! Look at what they've done!"

Following Niles, John climbed to the living room, his heart sinking into an overwhelming mix of alarm and anger. Books, papers, dishes - their things had been thrown about the room, lamps knocked over, tables upturned, drawers opened and their contents spread across the floor. The mess, however, wasn't what most perturbed John about the scene, nor was it the fact that all their valuables were still present. What disturbed John was the writing sprayed onto the wall, just next to the smiley face Sherlock had drawn all that time ago in similar yellow paint.

"Back off… SH," Niles read, but his voice sounded miles away.

_SH_.

It was difficult to comprehend the effect two letters alone had on him. John was lost in the possibility, his heart racing, mind stretching, trying to find a way that he could be right, that the SH was a signature, and that his best friend was alive. John very quickly found himself on the floor, his back pressed flat against the side of one of their armchairs which had managed not to get turned over.

"John, are you okay?" Niles was asking. Dimly he remembered nodding. He couldn't take his eyes off of the message, off of the wall. He could just imagine Sherlock bursting in, painting the wall on a whim, managing, somehow, to get none of the yellow mist on his clothes. He could see him tossing books around, opening boxes, looking for something… _like when he's digging for cigarettes,_ John mused. But what had he been looking for? And why 'back off?' He felt warm hands grasp him by the shoulders, his view of the message becoming obscured by a field of green.

"John? Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

John looked up at Niles for a brief moment, staring at the concerned face pressed into close proximity with his own. Somehow, he got the feeling the message had been meant for _him_. But its purpose and its meaning were secondary - the hope it gave him was overriding everything else. It was illogical, wild, and consuming… it was wondrous.

_Don't be dead, Sherlock… _he repeated to himself. _Don't be dead._


	9. Chapter 9

It took them the better part of the afternoon sorting and rearranging the apartment. The destruction had spread to areas outside the living room, and Niles had found his room had been particularly viciously attacked. Their cleaning-up was delayed, too, by the police and their investigation - evidence, they'd said. It was a crime scene, mustn't disturb it.

The break-in made him giddy, his face stretched into an excited grin when he was sure John and Mrs. Hudson weren't looking. He was almost absolutely sure who it was from, and why it was there. Someone believed he was getting a little too close for comfort to the good doctor.

"Right, so I don't think you ought to be coming along to see Miss Puckett, or anyone else we find, John," Lestrade was saying. "The killer obviously knows who you are, and who you used to work with, and doesn't want you involved. It'd be safer for you if you stayed away from it."

"Inspector, I'm _telling_ you, it's got nothing to do with the killing!" Niles looked up from the arm of the couch at John, agitated and pacing, arms practically stabbing the air as he gestured at the detective inspector. As excited as he was, he was certain John was the more emotionally invested.

"John…"

"Look at it! SH, he always signs his texts like that, always! It's in the same paint as that blasted smiley face, on the _same_ wall. Why would some random killer choose that wall and that paint?"

The DI was quiet, though Niles could tell from his expression he was only being polite. The pity on his face was palpable, and Niles couldn't help but feel a little sorry for John. He knew, of course, that John was right. He had seen Sherlock at the hospital, an odd kind of charming in his janitor's disguise. At first, he hadn't been sure - it could really have been a curious maintenance man - but between the look in his eyes and the state they'd found their apartments, any doubts to the man's identity had vanished from the young doctor's mind.

"John, look… I know you want to believe it. I wish I could believe it too - trust me." Lestrade had lowered his voice into something more gentle. He was being genuine. Niles was struck by how many people seemed to harbor a kind of admiration for the detective - if not outright attraction. "But you were there, John. You _took his pulse._ You _saw _him. I wish it didn't have to be - but it's impossible. I'm sorry."

John swept a hand down his face, let out a long and difficult breath.

"Right." The doctor refused to speak for the rest of the investigation, and though Niles was rather fond of the DI and the way he looked in a collared shirt, it couldn't have been soon enough when he shut his notepad and pulled his crew out of the apartment. The fact that they were posting a surveillance unit outside Baker Street bothered Niles, but he would tend to that later. With Sherlock Holmes on the move, Niles had to be quick, and be careful.

"I believe you," he said to John.

"Don't pity me, Niles. It's bad enough when Lestrade does it."

Niles moved to John and put his hands on his shoulders, leveling his most genuine stare at the doctor. Effect achieved - the doctor seemed to pale a little under it, but regained his composure after his eyes flicked up to his hair. Niles made a mental note to fix it later - the more of a resemblance he bore to the detective, the more leverage he'd have with the doctor. Besides, it'd been a while since he'd been a brunette.

"No. I believe you. I honestly do. There are dozens of ways to get rid of a pulse without dying, more ways to fake falling off a building. You said you saw him fall - did you ever actually see him hit the ground? Were you at the body right away?" He shook him a little, gently, but enough to jog him out of whatever reverie he'd sunken into. "Think, John! It's important!"

John furrowed his brow, and Niles could see the wheels turning in his head again - sober wheels, this time. It was rather nice to watch. The doctor had an impressive intellect, even if he was a bit naïve and easily misguided.

"No - no, I never saw him hit. And it… took me a little while to get there. I got hit by a biker and… I had to fight my way through a crowd to see him - but no. No, I was talking to him. He rang me, on my phone. He - he said goodbye."

Niles' face split into a grin.

"That's plenty of time to rig something, John. The phone call could have come from anywhere. What else did he say?"

Niles was quite fond of the way the doctor's mouth opened just slightly when he was led towards a stunning realization.

"Keep your eyes focused on me," John breathed.

"Yes. He wanted you to watch him, carefully, I imagine. Why would he want that?"

John shook his head, eyes distant until Niles shook him again.

"I don't know! I can't - I don't know how his mind works, alright?" John protested, shaking out of Niles' grasp.

"You were the closest anyone ever was to Sherlock Holmes, isn't that right? You lived with him, went on cases with him, blogged about his life!"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean - "

"Did you love him?"

"What!"

Niles locked eyes with John. There was no smile on the young doctor's face now, only seriousness. The train wreck the question caused behind the doctor's face was delicious - Niles was getting high off of the man's reactions.

"You heard me."

"For God's sake - he wasn't my boyfriend!"

"That isn't what I asked."

For a while, Niles thought he might actually answer. He opened his mouth again, shut it, licked his lips several times.

"I - I don't - to hell with this, I don't need this right now!"

"John - "

"Just leave me alone!"

He smiled at the doctor's back as he retreated to his room. _Alcohol, definitely alcohol. Alcohol, better hair_ - and then he'd see where he got with Dr. Watson.

But first, he had a phone call to make.


	10. Chapter 10

****A/N: And so it begins! I know it isn't much, but consider it an appetizer. There is more yet to come.

**Warning: **There be masturbatory events in this chapter! Beware! 

* * *

><p>There was nothing more painful than an obvious question. John wanted to stop thinking about it, wanted to shut it out of his mind and forget the whole thing happened - forget that there was SH-signed graffiti on his wall, forget that he had a flat mate that seemed to be able to read what was on his mind. Why hadn't he picked one of the stupid-looking ones? John tossed himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow. He was frustrated. Frustrated, confused - he was going out of his mind with everything that was happening. He took in a deep breath, and with it came the scent of the fabrics, Sherlock's pillows, Sherlock's sheets - he hadn't changed them since, only actually slept in them once or twice. Even the things in the room were exactly as they'd been left - it didn't even occur to John to think of it as strange that the room hadn't been tussled like the rest of the house.<p>

John flipped over onto his back, his chest heaving. His body was on fire - tingling with prospect of being targeted by a criminal, with the prospect of Sherlock's return - with excitement, with anxiety, with… frustration. How long had it been? John's attempts at relationships since Sherlock's death had been half-hearted at best. The activity recently, Niles' close proximity to his face - it was those damn eyes, they were too much alike - all this talk of the detective, how close they were… it was getting a rise out of the doctor that he couldn't ignore.

Well, he didn't have to think about it, just take care of it. Right?

Making sure the door was closed, he stripped off his pants, kicking them to the floor amongst his things - he hadn't unpacked into the room yet, despite the time. He was already hard - and he flushed with the idea of it having been noticed by Niles. Wrapping his hand around it he began, feverishly, pulling a low moan from his lips. He could almost feel the detective's eyes on him, those perfect grey-blue, unbearably intense eyes, roving over his body, inspecting, analyzing, devouring. John's breath hitched as his body tightened, muscles clenching, his eyes half-lidded as the name slipped past his lips.

"Sherlock…"

His fantasy Sherlock poured over him, hands probing, moving over muscle, exciting his nerves, sending shivers across his skin. His fingers slid across his chest, down his legs, The thought of Sherlock touching him was electrifying - John was already getting close, careening towards climax, his cock stiffening in his hand, sack sucking up towards his torso - and when he imagined his hands wandering back, back between his cheeks, pressing in -

John exploded all over his shirt. Warm, white stickiness weighed it down over his stomach, and he quickly removed it, tossing it aside before it soaked through to his skin. He fell back against the pillows, his heart racing, his mind blank. He could take a shower later - for now, all he wanted to do was sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I will admit, I particularly like the idea that Sherlock is an asexual, in love with his work kind of man. But I do believe he's human, and taking care of human needs is just another way of maintaining his focus. I think he just happens to think taking care of it by using John is a better option than anything else. Plus slash is just fun.

* * *

><p>Nothing alarmed and disturbed the detective's mind more than what he was experiencing then. Living with John he had borne witness to such moments before - passing by his room late at night, barging in to run an idea by him, stealing his bathroom when his own wasn't working to speculation - but never, never had he heard John utter his name.<p>

The effect it had on him was… incomputable.

Sherlock stood flattened against the closet door, his breathing carefully managed. On the other side of the thin, cheap wood John was touching himself, hand wrapped firmly around a - Sherlock had to confess - impressive specimen of the male reproductive system, gaze focused on what the detective could only surmise was an imagined version of himself. John? Attracted to him? _Pleasuring_ himself to the thought of him? He couldn't help but be curious as to what the good doctor was imagining that was working so well for his libido. He might have asked him - might have stepped into the room just then and savored the look of shock on John's face as he messed himself in front of him - his lips turned up slightly at the thought. But no… Sherlock had things to do, business to take care of.

He would have to deal with John and his fantasies later.

It wasn't long before John had finished and dozed off, and Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief. Creeping out of his hiding place, he picked his way across the minefield of John's personal belongings. He stumbled a little, knocking a pile of books by the bed onto the floor. Luckily for him, John was a heavy sleeper when his body was surging with testosterone. But Sherlock frowned. His balance was off, his movements awkward. What in the world - he looked down at his trousers, frown deepening as he spotted the large protrusion in the cloth. He reached in and tucked it up so it would snag underneath his belt instead of bobbing awkwardly. Well, no wonder he was feeling so cumbersome.

He left John's room, closing the door with a click. He hadn't been expecting that, not at all. It derailed him, and it took a few minutes he could have used for preparation to recenter his mind.

When he entered the living room, the young surgeon was perched on the arm of John's favorite chair, Sherlock's old skull in his hands.

"Did you like what you saw?" he asked, nodding at the still-obvious bulge in Sherlock's pants. Formal suit pants were terrible at hiding erections, but Sherlock so rarely needed them for that purpose.

"I believe we have more important things to discuss."

"On the contrary, Mr. Holmes," said Niles, stepping away from the chair and raising the skull to his face. "I believe your relationship with John is exactly the reason for our meeting here this evening."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the young man - he looked like a boy next to him, tall, yes, but young in the face, his face looking almost innocent but for his eyes. His suit was neatly pressed and expensive, his shoes meticulously shined. His hair - and that awful shade of green threw him off - was mussed in a purposeful kind of way, bangs in his face just enough to annoy the detective. He exuded confidence, standing perfectly still and calm as he watched Sherlock deduce him. He read like a teenager, like a child, and like a professional - a nicely-wrapped bundle of contradictions.

Niles cocked his head to one side, and Sherlock read excitement into his smile.

"Well? What do you think? John's said you can tell everything about a person with a glance like that. What are you reading about me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock took a breath, sensitive nostrils picking out the smells of rubbing alcohol and hospital.

"You're a doctor - a surgeon to be exact, and a good one. The heavy emphasis you place on consonants tells me you spent a good amount of time in Germany - studying abroad, no doubt, which would explain along with my observations of you and your patients why St. Bart's lets you keep that ridiculous hair. You're excellently skilled and well-experienced, and your patients love you, which is a plus for any hospital looking to improve their PR. St. Bart's did once house _me_ in their basement, after all, and I'm sure you've heard what the media said of _that._" Sherlock ignored the Cheshire-esque grin Niles' smile had grown into and moved on.

"Your shoes aren't scuffed at all - in fact, they look brand new, and as most men recovering from a move to a new flat wouldn't dare spend the extra cash on new shoes - or a new suit, for that matter, both custom-made - I would venture that you've either a larger sum of money than you let on or a benefactor, in either case the money is also going to the upkeep of another place of residence entirely, where the majority of the things you haven't yet moved into your room here are likely stashed. Being a successful surgeon might explain a thing or two, but you're young - too young to have amassed that much, and even a medical prodigy can't make millions in a just couple of years. Either it's an inheritance or something more criminal, my personal inclinations being towards the latter, though most would disagree."

The detective took a short breath, his eyebrows furrowing slightly when he saw Niles' eyes rake down his body. He might have been reading him, making his own deductions, but he doubted the look was purely for the purpose of gathering information.

"Well, quite right, for the most part," Niles interjected, puppeting his words with the skull. "Family home in East Finchley, all mine now - an inheritance of sorts, you could say. Parents are alive and well, of course, but working in America and far away. Don't suppose they're ever coming back at all, either. But none of that is important, and none really quite relevant to our current situation."

The young surgeon closed the distance between them, locking eyes with the detective. He licked his lips and Sherlock felt uncomfortable, though he wasn't about to move backwards and let Niles believe he was intimidated. Niles leaned in, tilting his head towards the side of Sherlock's face - too close for comfort. The smell of alcohol was stronger, but the heat that radiated from him, the sense of desire - no, of hunger was far more overwhelming. The boy's muscles were tensed, his body taut - Sherlock could tell from the clear outline of his jugular - like a predator crouched, waiting to pounce.

"Tell me why I killed those people," he whispered in his ear.

He pulled away and Sherlock met his eyes, saw the challenge in them, the razor-keen edge that looked so out of place on a face that looked as kind as Niles'. The detective stood perfectly still, holding the younger man's stare. He was dangerous, if only because nobody would ever guess he was. Sherlock needed him stopped - or, at the very least, Sherlock needed him out of Baker Street.

"Bonus points if you can tell me how," he added, stepping past the detective and to the front door. Sherlock could hear the quickly approaching sound of a siren, and as Niles stepped away from him he went to the window, peeking carefully out the curtain to see two police cars go screaming by, the men in the car parked across the street from the flat leaving their vehicle to approach the front door, chatting hurried sentences into their walkie talkies.

"Dear me, it looks like something's happened," said Niles. "Do excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I'll only be a moment."

Sherlock watched as he stepped outside the door into the stairwell, closing it most of the way behind him. He heard the loud footsteps of the officers coming up, pausing when the saw the green-haired young doctor at the landing.

"Shh, sorry officers, flat mate's asleep. Bit rattled, you know, by all this. What's going on?" The concern in his voice was admirably genuine - Sherlock couldn't help but be impressed on how completely Niles could switch demeanor. He almost sounded a little rattled himself, which was a nice touch.

"Apologies, sir, but they've found him. He did in one more and then did himself - he's gone. We're going to the scene now."

The detective would have been floored by the news if he hadn't expected some sort of difficulty. He had been hoping the police surveillance would last a little longer - it would have bought him more time, made matters a bit more difficult for Niles - but the boy was clever, and had more connections than Sherlock had immediately realized. He was curious, overwhelmingly so, as to how he had managed to make another man take the fall. The Yard wasn't particularly difficult to fool, but suicides were tricky, murder-suicides even more so.

"Ah… good, that's - " he heard Niles expel a huge sigh of relief. " - that's wonderful news, officer. Thank you. D'you think when the DI's all done over there, he could drop by? I know my flat mate's probably going to want to have a chat with him about this when he's up and about."

"We'll let him know. Do you two need anything else just now?"

"No, no officer, I believe we'll be fine now. Thank you again - and have a good night." The smile in his voice was audible. Sherlock could imagine the officers' faces melting into smiles as well - irresistibly, even. Niles seemed to have that effect on people.

"People skills," said the detective as Niles entered the room. "It's your perfect alibi. You know how to carry yourself, how to inflect your voice, how to hold your face - it makes you seem normal, makes you fit in. You know exactly what to say and how to say it. People can't help but feel _right _around you. No one would ever want to believe you're capable of doing ill, and so they never will."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you flatter me," he said, and Sherlock was sure he saw a blush across his cheeks.

"You aren't flattered - not really. You knew that, all of it - you're just very good at _appearing _to be what you want to be. That's why they don't struggle, isn't it? They come to you willingly. They probably even _ask_ you to do it. Though it seems a bit cheap to go after the terminally ill. Did you he offer to take the rap for you? Whoever they're on their way to find?"

Niles chuckled, tongue poking into his cheek for a moment as he thought to himself.

"You know, I had been considering trying my luck with a perfectly healthy, if a bit emotionally devastated one. But I've changed my mind. I'm rather fond of him now - bit of a thing for military men, I suppose. And that limp is God-awfully cute. And no, that one didn't really have much of a choice in the matter."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. The idea of him going after John was beyond irritating - and if Sherlock had brought a gun it'd likely be pointed at the back of his head. Sherlock wasn't usually one for guns, but sometimes they were called for - especially in the case of meeting dangerous sociopaths who'd moved in with the only man in the world he thought of as worth a damn. He took a step towards Niles, glowering at him.

"You will not lay a finger on that man."

"Oh my, protective are we? No - weren't you listening? I'm not going to hurt him, unless he asks for it… which he just might. It's those broken types, you know… such masochists."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He'd heard whispers of the young surgeon's sexual deviances, but they were only whispers, and he'd never laid his hands on anything concrete. _Masochist_. The word sent his mind running back to the Woman's riding crop and how intriguingly original the situation had felt, how it would, he imagined, feel for someone like John. Niles Cohen was a presumptuous young man, arrogant in a sneaky and underlying sort of way. It bothered Sherlock, not because the arrogance was unfounded, but because he had an inkling he was right.

"And what exactly makes you believe he's going to ask for it?"

Sherlock didn't enjoy the malevolence, the understanding in the surgeon's smile.

"I don't believe, I _know… _because you aren't going to tell him you're alive, are you, Mr. Holmes?"


	12. Chapter 12

John hadn't slept for so long in months. He woke up bare-chested and sticky, a bleary-eyed glance at the clock telling him it was sometime in the early afternoon. He rolled to the edge of his bed and went stumbling towards the shower, coming to the rather awkward realization that he'd messed himself again in his sleep. He chose not to decipher whatever the wet dream was - it was far too early to sort out what he was feeling towards whom.

The shower was a blur, enough to wake him up and get him clean, and then he was out, and dressed, and pausing at his bedroom door. He didn't want to deal with what the living room looked like. He didn't want to deal with Niles, either. He was an insensitive prick sometimes, for as caring and worried as he could be.

_Did you love him? _John made a face at the back of the door and grabbed his cane. _What a stupid question. _

Steeling himself, John opened the door and left the bedroom, his eyes on his footsteps and on his cane. All he would have to do was get across the living room and to the stairwell. He found himself wishing he could be chasing a cab, forgetting his limp and springing across London rooftops like a deer.

_With Sherlock_, a Nilesian voice in his brain murmured. He pushed the green-haired doctor from his mind - he had no desire for him to be there, complicating thoughts and dreams with his irritating way of getting under people's skin.

The living room was empty when John entered it. Everything had been neatly reorganized and stored, Sherlock's books replaced on their shelves, the furniture repositioned. Niles was out - at work, John assumed - and that was all well and good for the doctor. It struck John how little Niles' moving in had changed the common room. It was almost untouched, Niles having kept his books and things confined to his own bedroom as he had previously promised. The only signs he lived there at all were the teacups he occasionally left on the coffee table, the laptop that sat always precariously perched on the arm of the couch, and the presence of eccentric foods in the refrigerator. Niles, John had discovered one night, had a knack for taking strange meats and making them into something lovely.

"It's goat," he'd told him once, when John was in the middle of devouring a steak he'd cooked up for him. "Braised with some peppers and garlic and a few shallots. Can't overpower the flavor, you know - it's the best part."

John's mind had resisted the idea, but the taste and texture were undeniably wonderful.

"Try this, it's deer stew," he'd said one other time.

"Ever tasted blood sausage, John?"

John set his hands on his hips, staring at a small piece of white paper that had been left on the coffee table, next to Niles' empty coffee cup.

_Out. DI said he'd pop by to check in - got some good news. Be home later tonight. - Niles _

In retrospect, Niles' insensitivities were few and far between. He had an annoying curiosity when it came to John and his opinions with Sherlock, and John admitted that was a soft spot, but in all other aspects he was a tolerable, even pleasant flat mate. It was certainly refreshing to come home to dinner - when the surgeon wasn't pulling an all-nighter - be made tea every so often, be complemented about his medical work. Niles was _likeable_. Talking to him had been a tich more pleasant than talking to his damn therapist, besides. John had to talk to someone, and for whatever reason his new flat mate was willing to listen to him.

John collected his phone from beside his laptop and settled into a seat at the desk.

_Are you coming by today? Niles mentioned you might. -JW _

It was some time until Lestrade answered. He must have been busy at the Yard.

_Busy. Come by the office? -Lestrade_

John sighed. The frequency with which he followed people's orders was alarming. Come by the office, John. Cover that hill, Captain! Hurry up, we're losing him, John! Put on this bomb vest, Johnny boy! John was a little tired of being ordered around, a little tired of being left behind, a little tired of being a follower.

He came to several conclusions as the taxi picked him up and started him towards Scotland Yard. One, he was going to get what he damn well wanted when he wanted it, because he'd had enough and he deserved it, for God's sake. Two, he was going to find Sherlock Holmes and force him back to Baker Street so he could tell him exactly what he thought of him. (John hadn't quite figured out what he'd say yet, but that was immaterial. It was the thought that counted, right?) Three, he needed a good shag. A good, long, hard shag.

Lestrade was quite surprised when John burst into the office, no pleasantries, no apologies, only a steely commanding glare that winded the detective inspector and left him blinking in his chair. John could be military when he wanted to be, and he was not unhappy with the effect his new attitude was having on the people of the Yard.

"I was told you had good news for me," he said curtly, tilting his head downward and locking the inspector's eyes with his own. It was a Sherlock tactic, but John felt no guilt in using it. John clasped his hands behind his back, standing perfectly straight, back stiff, legs shoulder-width apart. He had left his cane at home and was regretting it, but he wasn't about to show it now.

"Ah - yeah, yeah I did. Are you - " Lestrade frowned and shook his head, evidently deciding not to ask. "Nevermind. We caught the killer last night. A few of our boys came by to let you know, but Dr. Cohen said you were off to bed and not to be bothered." When John only nodded in response, he went on. "He'd been abducting them, hacking them up, tossing the parts in the Thames in garbage bags. We found a few bits and pieces of them all, but the lot of its probably washed downstream."

Lestrade slid a photograph across his desk to the doctor. The man in it was in his fifties, graying, messy hair, a sullen face and bad teeth."Look familiar to you at all?"

"No, never seen him before."

Lestrade sighed.

"Probably just another sod who read the blog and knew you worked with a detective once, then," he said, collecting the photo and stuffing it back into his files. "At any rate, you two haven't got to worry about him any longer. Just be careful, will you? Dr. Cohen's good with the traumatized ones, that's why we took her to him in the first place, and we might do it again in the future, but we'd rather not have the lot of you shot at for it."

"We'll be fine. Was that all?"

The DI was taken aback by John's short answers, John could see it in his face. He looked at him for a moment before nodding and going back to the paperwork on his desk. John shifted on his feet impatiently. He had lost interest in the missing persons case once he had seen the SH, and he wanted to get back to his priorities.

"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know. Look, John, you okay? You're acting off."

John shook his head, turning on his heel to leave. Lestrade was a good-natured man and John felt no particular ill will towards him, but his underlings and his department the doctor had no respect for. It was with a cold shoulder that he would pass by Donovan and Anderson, by their chief and the rest of the gawking, naïve rank and file of the Yard. Their treatment and attitude of Sherlock had been abysmal, and John wouldn't waste his time on any of them.

"I'm fine. Goodbye, inspector," he said, giving Lestrade a nod before disappearing from the department.

John didn't feel like going to work that day. He felt like drinking, and like looking for Sherlock, like taking his frustration out in the form of angry sex - in that order. John took a moment to be shocked at himself. Was he admitting he _wanted_ Sherlock Holmes? He couldn't deny that he enjoyed sleeping with women - the on and off nights with his girlfriends during his time as Sherlock's assistant had been fun enough - but the thought of Sherlock in his robe, Sherlock in his suits, Sherlock in nothing - John felt a familiar tangle in his stomach, noticed his trousers becoming uncomfortable, and mentally succumbed. Yes, he wanted Sherlock Holmes. He checked his watch. It was early, too early for some, but John needed a drink. He couldn't have the detective if he couldn't find him, and he damn well wasn't going to start looking without a shot or two of whiskey to help him along.


	13. Chapter 13

**Warning:** Adult scenes in this chapter, please be cautious. Very graphic boy on boy sex. If you're going to be at all offended, I'd recommend you stop reading - there's going to be quite a bit of it from here on out.

A/N: Yes, I do take my time getting to the fun things, don't I? So sorry.

* * *

><p>It was dark out when John finally returned home. To his credit, he had been working hard - asking questions, searching places, scouring the morgue at St. Bart's - and Molly, incidentally, who seemed determined to convince John she had something better to do - for clues. Sherlock might have been proud at how painstakingly observant he was being - except that John found nothing and no one that was helpful. He was frustrated as he climbed the stairs to the living room, lingering thoughts of Sherlock still weighing on his mind and his nethers.<p>

"Niles, I might need your assistance with - " The doctor stopped mid-sentence, floored by the sight of the brunette sitting perched on the arm of his favorite chair, toying with what looked like a saber. The tall man's hair was wet, the moisture making its tips turn up, giving it the impression of slight curls. His chest was pale and bare, rivulets of shower water running down it, a towel draped about his shoulders - lean, muscled shoulders, and well-toned arms. Grey-blue eyes turned up to meet the doctor, sparkling with something fiercer than John had ever seen in them before, even if his expression played at innocence.

"Good evening, John. Been productive?" he asked.

"Your hair - " John began. The younger man stood, pulling the towel from his shoulders and approaching John. His smile was disarming, a level, subtle upturn of the corners of his mouth. A Sherlock-esque smile. John felt a tightening in his trousers.

"What do you think? The surgery asked me to try a natural color, and the blonde just wouldn't cover the green, so… here I am."

"I - " John swallowed. He was supposed to be taking the lead, wasn't he? What had happened to all of his confidence and determination? He cleared his throat, his hands clenching at his sides. "Good. It's good, yeah."

Niles' face broke into a sweet smile.

"Oh, I'm glad. It's a bit of a mess when it's drying like this, gets all curled up everywhere. But you were saying something - what was it you needed help with?"

John licked his lips, blinked his eyes, steadied his gaze on the man in front of him.

"Sherlock," he said definitively. It was all he could muster. Niles could smell the alcohol on him, he was sure.

"You want… me to help you find him?"

"No," John interrupted, then cursed and shook his head. "Well, yes, but - no. Right now - no." His eyes moved from Niles' and he let the gaze wander over his bare chest, down to his trousers and back. The realization came to the young surgeon's face and his eyes widened, the fire in them blazing.

"You want… to pretend," he said, and John hadn't realized his voice could get so low. It was wrong, of course - the tone, the cheekbones, the tilt of his eyes - but John could ignore those for one night.

"Yes," he breathed. "I do."

John had opted against the bedroom. Impatience and a modicum of respect for Sherlock's things kept him in the living room, where he had stripped off his jacket and his jumper. It was awkward and hasty at first, clothes shed and tossed to the floor, hands groping, but John called the memory of the detective up to his mind, remembered his voice, his face, the slope of his body underneath his dressing gown - and he was soon over the awkwardness. He had never been with a man before, but he was going to be with the detective tonight - _his _detective, and it was going to be alright.

Niles had removed his shirt, deft surgeon's fingers making quick work of those buttons and the fastening of his jeans, which John kicked off quickly. He reached for Niles' pants - dark blue pajama bottoms, silk - but the lithe body twisted away from him, grabbing the doctor by the waist and dropping him onto the couch. He pulled off his boxers and John gasped as the cool air hit his exposed member. He was hard already, stiff from long nights of frustration and days of thinking of the detective, his cock pressing firmly against the slender brunette's lips and gaining quick entrance. John felt a tongue, warm and slick, swirling around the tip of him, around the crown, over the shaft as the younger man slid up and down on the doctor, fitting most of his length in his mouth and partially down his throat.

"You've - you've been wanting this for a while," murmured John, his hands tangling in the soft dark hair, urging him forward. His hips canted into that mouth, his eyes half-closed from the pleasure. Niles was good, practiced - he'd done this before.

"Brilliant deduction," hummed the brunette, and John quivered at the phrase. He swallowed John up again, making the doctor arch and moan, the name escaping his lips and setting his body on fire.

"Sherlock…"

Urged on by the utterance Niles swept his fingers up his thighs, fingers massaging, one hand dipping down to cup and massage the sack dangling beneath the doctor's cock, then probe beyond, massaging the firm muscle of the perineum, pressing inquisitively against the puckered entrance to John's ass. The doctor's breath hitched and bucked up into the other man's mouth, leaking clear fluids all over his tongue.

"Yes, Sherlock, _please_ - "

"Shh…" John found his lips captured by the brunette's, tasting his own bitterness behind them as his tongue probed his mouth. "From the potency and the amount, John, I'd say you've wanted this for quite some time, too…"

He loved the way he was picking him apart. He was different, so very different from the Niles John had been living with for the past month, so much like the detective: he was sharp, cold, methodical - which is what John wanted. But there was something else, something in the way he responded to John's noises, taking in his reactions, his eyes both hungry and analytical. There was something feral hidden in the coldness of them, and it made John feel more vulnerable, almost, than he was comfortable feeling. John let out a groan and Niles' finger gained entrance, began sliding in and out of him, making him shiver.

"God, I want - " he found his lips caught again, the voice speaking against them low and domineering.

"Quiet. I know _exactly_ what you want."

The finger withdrew, was replaced by two. He was stretching him gently, the younger man's other hand and the - God, wonderfully hot - mouth helping him relax into the sensation. A few more minutes and the doctor was pleading again, a soft whine tugging out of his throat when Niles withdrew entirely.

"Come now, John, what do you deduce would happen if I just _went in_? Surely a medical man would understand the ramifications…"

The condescension in his voice was spot-on, and far too sexy.

Dark hair bounced as he removed his pants, applying a healthy amount of lube to both his cock and John's entrance. The heat from the gel made John squirm, the absence of pressure inside him leaving him wanting. And then, all at once, the younger man was pressing against him, making him stretch, fairly sizable and slender and smooth. John let out a cry as he slid into him, his legs wrapping around the slender man's waist and his hands bracing himself back against the couch.

"God, Sherlock!"

"How wonderfully _tight_ you are, John…" he growled into his ear, pulling out and thrusting in slowly, again, and again, waiting to feel John's body melt into pleasure before picking up speed. John looked up once, caught the stare of the lustful grey-blue eyes and threw his head back in a wild moan as Niles' cock hit that spot for him.

"Sher-Sherlock!"

"Yes, John… that's it… _say my name_." It was a command, hissed against his cheek. John immediately obliged, the sound of the detective's name on his own lips making him tighten around the cock inside him, pulling a gasp from the other man.

"Sherlock - _Sherlock_!" Their rhythm was enveloping him, John losing himself to the pounding, the possessive grip the brunette had on his thighs. This was his detective, claiming him as his own, and John was loving every bit of it - and he wasn't going to last very long. He could feel himself sucking up tight, his shaft hardening in preparation -

John exploded all over his chest, sticky white fluids making trails up from his belly button. John barely registered when he pulled out, though the pressure of a towel and the sight of the young man hunched between his legs was a bit perplexing, even given the past few minutes they'd just shared.

"Oy, what're you…"

"Cleaning. Can't leave messes like this for Mrs. Hudson, can we?"

"And you…?"

Niles chuckled and shook his head.

"It's alright. It was your first time like that, wasn't it? I'm not going to go at you for as long as it'll take me. Easing people into this sort of thing is the best way to go, you know."

John laughed thickly. All of a sudden it was Niles again - considerate, compassionate, and sweet. He'd lent himself all too well to the dominance of the scene, and John couldn't help but wonder at how the kindly doctor he was used to dealing with could turn so quickly into someone else. He was also implying a repeat experience, which John wasn't so sure he was ready for. On the other hand, John wasn't so sure he _wasn't _going to want it again, either.

"Listen," John began uncertainly. "That - "

"Never happened, John." He flashed him half a smile before standing, the towel balled up in his hands.

"No, that's not what I was going to say. How - why did you do that?"

Niles stood from his position between John's legs, a queer smile on his face as he regarded the other doctor.

"It was sentiment, John."

"What?"

He grinned at the floor and shrugged, and John was sure he saw him blushing. He turned and started towards his room, tossing the sentence over his shoulder.

"When you asked me in the cab coming home from St. Bart's if I was being professional or sentimental… it was sentimental."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I'm absolutely delighted at the number of people reading. :) Thanks so much! And a great big thanks to the reviewers, I do so appreciate reviews. Keep them coming guys, it's wonderful to know how everyone's getting on with this.

**Warning: **Mentions of some graphic and potentially violent things. I figured it was time to give you all a taste of Niles.

* * *

><p>He shut the door quietly, locking himself away into the bathroom and bracing himself against the sink. His veins were on fire, his chest burning with <em>need<em>. He set his forehead against the mirror, feeling the cool glass, breathing in the smell of the metal rim that surrounded it. He could have taken the doctor right there, on the couch, fucked him senseless, pounded him until he the teeth tearing through his neck, the knife biting into his chest, the hand ripping out his heart went unnoticed among the moaning and the breathless ecstasy. Niles needed to eat - it had been too long, the cravings coming on too quickly, becoming distracting and uncontrollable. There were leftovers in the refrigerator, of course - stews and loafs and dishes the young surgeon had cooked for them out of the sweetest meats he and good Dr. Watson would ever savor - but Niles wanted something _fresh_.

He left the bathroom and slid into bed. John would be coming to speak with him soon, after his hormones relaxed and his conscience reasserted himself. He needed to look like he as asleep, needed to avoid any confrontations until the morning. He was liable to devour the doctor in this state… the man's scarred flesh, delicious voice, pleading eyes were more than enough to tempt him on a day to day basis, but with Niles' hunger at its peak and his libido still raging, there was no telling what amount of self control he could muster. Niles prided himself on the doctor's disassembly - it was only a matter of time before he turned his desires towards things beyond Sherlock Holmes - but he could not, would not rush it and spoil the experience.

John popped his head into Niles room a full forty-three minutes later, calling his name inquisitively and sounding tentatively relieved when he saw the younger man asleep. Niles smiled in his pretend-slumber. It was nice, playing cutesy, playing sweet - not because Niles particularly enjoyed being a housewife, but because he was so often and easily _believed_. It was an inflation of his ego whenever a patient called him an angel, an affirmation of his skills when a child clung to his shirt. He had learned as a child that love earned him more than fear or respect ever could, that intellect was easily defeated, that any man standing alone could be bested, but a man with the love of hundreds behind him was invincible.

He let a good five or ten more minutes pass after John left before he climbed out of bed, checking his phone. He had cut off his commissions for the month, knowing the Yard's unit outside their flat would have made it difficult to slip by unnoticed. No, he had to find somebody. He climbed onto the fire escape outside his window and took it to the roof. Niles couldn't take the streets tonight - Sherlock was bound to be watching, following.

He would watch and follow anyway, but Niles was going to at least make it difficult for him. And Sherlock wasn't about to compromise his own cover to bring Niles to justice. It was part of their game, not getting caught, and Niles had promised so many tedious things to the detective if he managed it while proving the young doctor's guilt.

_Bonus points if you tell me how I did it,_ he'd added.

The adrenaline pushed him across the rooftops, up and down stairways, through windows and into the apartments of the unfortunate and the unsuspecting - but he didn't stop, not yet. He whizzed by their beds and out their front doors, leaving them with nothing but the fleeting impression of a dark-haired man in a nicely pressed suit, scampering about in the night. He had to be picky tonight. He needed a quick snack - someone quiet, meaningless, out of the way. But he so hated dining on rats. He avoided the seedy hideaways of the homeless, avoided his previous hospice and hotel haunts, went instead to the back-alleys and watched the criminal life of London unfold before him.

There were killers and muggers and robbers, people who wanted to disappear, people who would be expected to turn up missing one day because they got in over their heads. Niles could spot them from the way they carried their weapons - concealed but close at hand - from the way they stared at their victims - like they were stripping them down to their valuables - from the way they stalked about in the night - like he stalked _them_ - that they were the ones. He picked one and slunk after him, smooth and quiet as a shadow, aware of the detective playing lost tourist in his gaudy cap and sunglasses two alleyways down. There was chloroform and the back seat of a car and the convenient use of a needle on a detective that got far too close for comfort.

Niles was actually quite concerned for Sherlock as he and his prize were driven back to his family home. If the detective were found he'd be terribly disappointed, and he was sure John wasn't quite ready for his return besides. Still, he couldn't exactly have taken him with him, and Niles comforted himself with the fact that Sherlock was a resourceful and hardy man, and would find a way to keep himself from being discovered despite the drugs he'd just slipped into his neck.

It felt like forever sitting in that car, and it wasn't soon enough when they finally arrived and Niles had the man stripped and strapped to a table. This was different from his usual - there was no acquiescence in this case, no pleadings for Niles to work, no admiration in the eyes of his patient, as there had been so many times before.

But it was no matter. He watched the man's struggles and licked his lips, pulling the latex examination gloves onto his hands with a snap. He would simply have to make him want it in other ways. The man on his table seemed to finally be collecting his wits, his thrashing becoming more violent against the thick leather straps that held him down.

"What is this? Who are you!"

"An executioner," said Niles, hesitating before donning his surgical mask. "And a very hungry man."

He saw the veins popping in his patient's forehead and neck, looked past the skin to the sinew and muscle and blood that ran beneath it - he couldn't help himself, he dug his scalpel in, severed a good piece of flesh and slid it between his teeth.

It was raw and warm as it ran down his throat - Niles' tongue captured every flavor, the metallic blood, the salty flesh, the sweet taste of muscle as he tore it between his teeth. It was rapture.

"You fucking little prick, I'll fucking gut you!"

Niles raised his eyebrows in annoyance as he was startled from his reverie. _This time_, he thought, picking a pair of pliers and hefty medical scissors from his table. _I'll start with the tongue._

* * *

><p>AN: I did get the _slightest_ bit carried away and have quite a bit more of the scene with Niles. I've omitted it because it's unnecessary and rather violent/graphic, but if anyone's interested at all in further observing how he works - because it won't be explained in much more detail in the rest of the fic - then I do welcome you to contact me and I'll send it over.

Thanks again! And thank you for your continued reading. Next chapters will be up as soon as I can craft them.


	15. Chapter 15

_Pick me up. - SH _

The three simple words were enough to furrow the older Holmes' brow with worry. Sherlock was never one to ask for help, especially not from him, and the blatant request for assistance beat at Mycroft's executive heart with familial concern. What _had_ his younger brother gotten into this time? He had agreed wholeheartedly to support him in his disappearance, had fed him information on John Watson's well-being, tracked down the movements of Moriarty's web with him - albeit remotely - even bothered to check in once in a while during his absence from London conversationally. It had been, after all, partially his fault Moriarty knew quite so much about Sherlock.

But Moriarty was, for all intents and purposes, out of the picture. What could possibly be distressing Sherlock Holmes now?

Drugs, as it happened.

Mycroft picked the empty syringe out of his unresponsive brother's hand and narrowed his eyes. Sherlock still had his coat on, and from the looks of things hadn't had it removed recently. The needle certainly hadn't gone into his arm. A quick and ginger turn of his brother's head exposed a small puncture in the side of his neck, angled awkwardly - whoever had administered it had been behind him at the time. Mycroft was almost relieved - the younger Holmes was exhibiting none of the symptoms of overdose, or of the use of any of the hard drugs with which he had previously been familiar. He was, however, more than a little incensed.

"Take him. He's coming back with us," he said to the men standing at his elbow. He turned back to the sleek black thing occupying the entrance to the alleyway behind them. "And be careful with him, for God's sake!" he added. It was already quite evident that the less than savory characters of the London streets were abusing his younger brother; he wasn't going to have his own men manhandling him, too.

Sherlock was not the type of man to be bothered by nightmares, nor was he the type of man to dream of anything at all, except the study of something in his mind palace. It was rare that Mycroft ever saw him toss and turn- in fact, he hadn't seen his younger brother in the throes of a bad dream since they were children.

"Sherlock," he said softly, refraining himself from reaching out and shaking the younger Holmes by the shoulders. The drug he had been given was not dangerous, Mycroft had concluded. Sherlock was, by and large, in no medical distress, merely unconscious. It had been at least an hour - Mycroft had been able to successfully implant the idea of foreign occupation to Parliament during that time - since he'd found his brother out on the alleyway floor, and he was due to answer some of the older Holmes' questions.

"_Sherlock_," he said more firmly, and the slender brunette shifted on the couch cushions, eyelids fluttering as his mind wrestled off the effects of the drug.

"Nrshh gohnnn…" he mumbled.

"Sherlock, you're being incoherent. Get a hold of yourself."

The younger Holmes raised his head off of his pillow by a fraction of an inch, eyes half-closed and mouth hanging open. He groaned and attempted to sit up, his hands groping clumsily for purchase underneath him. Mycroft checked his pocket watch impatiently. He had things to attend to, and he just _knew_ it would be unfair to Korea if his mind were half-distracted with worry over his baby brother. But Sherlock was finally sitting up, his upper body swaying uncertainly as he grabbed his head, pale hands digging into the thick head of curls in attempt to steady himself.

"Has it only been an hour?"

"Two, Sherlock. You were unconscious for at least an hour before we found you."

Sherlock muttered an obscenity under his breath, one hand moving to cup the area around the puncture on his neck.

"Do you know how many people saw you scampering about on their balconies?" Mycroft said, and Sherlock slapped his hands down on the cushions.

"They didn't see _me_, they saw _him_. Have you seen him, or weren't you paying close enough attention?" he hissed, surprisingly venomous for someone waking from a drug-induced slumber. '

Mycroft had been following Sherlock's progress, been watching the back forth between his little brother and the young surgeon-cannibal Niles Cohen. It was alarming how personal Sherlock was taking the man's actions. Mycroft had, of course, in his observation of his brother and John Watson during their time together at Baker Street surmised there might have been attachment there, even attraction, but had never been quite certain as to how strong. While he was certainly glad his brother had found some reliable, the effect it had on his priorities and his personal defenses was more than disconcerting.

"You're growing careless, Sherlock. You're in such a terrible hurry."

"He has to be stopped, Mycroft!" Sherlock replied angrily.

"There are plenty of murderers in London. What makes this one such a priority?" Mycroft knew exactly what, of course, but Sherlock needed to be able to admit it for himself.

"He's dangerous," answered Sherlock petulantly. He was regaining his orientation and his awareness, strong enough already to get to his feet and begin to pace.

"To whom? His patients? Certainly not - he's good enough to keep his professional and his criminal lives separate. To his intended victims? Well, of course. Every killer is. But you couldn't care less about them, could you?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking!"

"Not about the right thing, Sherlock. Why does this matter so much to you? _Think_. Priorities have never been your strong suit, but if you would only sit and sort them you'd find your focus much quicker."

"Don't _patronize_ me, Mycroft."

Sherlock was blocking him out, he knew it, but that wasn't going to stop him from saying what he needed to hear.

"Play your game with the surgeon, then, Sherlock. Just remember that the longer you do, the longer he has to _play_ with Dr. Watson."

Sherlock turned his gaze on his brother, and if Mycroft had been any other man he might have quivered under that stare. Instead he held his eyes, his chin lifted, unperturbed by the darkened grey.

"Show me the screens."

"That would be exceedingly unproductive."

Mycroft had opted not to give Sherlock access to the video feeds of Baker Street. After what he had seen the young surgeon and Dr. Watson doing that one evening prior to Sherlock's inoculation, he was absolutely sure his younger brother would do something stupid if allowed to view them. But even Mycroft had his weaknesses - he was, by and large, a _good_ older brother, after all - and Sherlock being polite was one of them.

"Show me the screens… _please."_


	16. Chapter 16

"It's lamb tongue," Niles said, and John winced at the slices of slippery-looking meat on his plate. "A derivative of a beef tongue dish someone made for me a couple of years ago. I know - looks a little bit off, but it's lovely and tender, trust me."

John watched the now-brunette young doctor devour the bits of tongue among the vegetables and rice on his plate, eyes lingering on his lips, moistened by the sauce he used on the dish. John swallowed.

"What's it taste like?" he asked, thinking of at least a couple other tongues but the one on his plate.

"Heaven," Niles answered, licking his lips and locking eyes with the doctor. John squirmed in his seat. He had Sherlock's disarming, probing gaze, even when he wasn't playing detective. It was maddening. Under the pressure of Niles' stare he speared a piece of tongue on his fork and popped it into his mouth, chewing tentatively. The taste was, unsurprisingly to John, like that of Niles' other dishes - delicious, unexpected, and unique. The texture, though - there was something disturbing about chewing on food that bore the same slippery feel as his own tongue. Twice John found himself biting into the wrong tongue, cursing so loudly the third time he did it that Niles was on him faster than he could wince. The surgeon's mouth tasted like garlic and butter and red wine, and John almost had to resist the urge to bite down on the tongue that slipped past his lips and around his. When Niles pulled away John could see the telling bulge in his pressed dress pants, the sly curve of his lips as he slipped into his lower register.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice you eyeing me up like that over lunch, John? You seem to have forgotten how much attention I pay to _details_," he purred, leaning in to brush his lips against John's ear.

But John had something else in mind. Niles had taken him by surprise the first time, caught him half-drunk and desperate. This time the doctor was determined to hang onto the deliberate and aggressive attitude he'd decided to adopt before their tumble, pushing the young surgeon back against the table and pinning his wrists to it. As much as he'd enjoyed the first time, what he wanted when he thought of the detective, when his mental eye roved over the pale skin, when he imagined his hands digging into the thick dark curls, was _this_. He wanted to take him, wanted to see that cold exterior shatter, wanted to see him melt in his arms, make him call out his name. "And you keep forgetting I used to be a soldier," he said, voice rough and breathless. "I'll show you how I deal with bad days."

And then he was ripping at his shirt, buttons flying, exposing the pale, toned expanse of the brunette's chest. The younger man read the aggression in his flat mate and swallowed his submissive role, adapting, as he was so keen on doing, to the situation presented to him. His expression, still very much calculating and analytical, adopted a look of surprise, eyebrows tilting upward as John stripped him and tossed his clothes to the living room floor. _Guess I was ready for another go after all,_ he thought to himself before quickly pushing thought out of the equation.

"Turn around," he commanded, in his soldier's voice, releasing the slender wrists just long enough for the other man to turn and brace himself against the table. John ran his hands down his arms and back, drinking in the smoothness of his skin, the firm contours of his body.

"God, you're gorgeous," he breathed, and his mind went to those nights Sherlock lounged in his dressing gown, that casual gray shirt and those loose pajama pants, thin fabrics clinging to his form that he allowed all too frequently to droop and expose skin - low-riding pajama pants, and when the shirt shrunk in the wash and he sprawled out on the couch to stretch John's eyes had wandered over the flat planes of his stomach…

John slid his hands back up his front, feeling muscle and skin, fingers stopping to roll the sensitive nubs of his nipples between them. Niles let out a gasp, pressing back against the doctor and the stiffening erection in his pants. John growled in response, leaning in to kiss fiercely at the junction of his neck and shoulder. He applied his teeth and the younger doctor shivered.

"John, please - " he groaned, and the idea of his detective _begging_ him set fire to his veins. He put his fingers to the younger man's lips and the brunette sucked them in, digit by digit, skilled tongue sliding over them and making John's stiffened member twitch against his back. Finding his fingers sufficiently lubricated, John removed them from his mouth, sliding one, then two forcefully into his hole. He fingered him mercilessly, a shameful knowledge of the erogenous zones on a male body revealing itself as he stimulated Niles' prostate.

"My God, John, when did you get good at this?" he said, his lips moaning around John's name in a way the doctor found quite enticing.

"College medical studies," John replied bluntly, and saw the younger doctor fight the urge to drop his character and explore that point. He pulled his fingers out and dropped his pants, his hand grasping the dark hair and tugging him around for a kiss. "Now shut up and come here," he mumbled.

John pulled him towards the couch and pressed his head down, the younger man learning quickly what the doctor wanted and engulfing his cock with his mouth. John moaned as the heat and the soft tissues of his throat swept over him, his hands tangling in the dark hair and guiding him deeper, faster.

"God, Sherlock - " he gasped, bucking into that mouth, into the blissful suction and warmth that dazed his senses. He took a look down at the slender man sucking him off and imagined the deep baritone rumbling around him, sending vibrations along his shaft. He was far too good at this, he realized, feeling a warm tongue teasing at the sensitive slit at the end of him and feeling quite undone. He had to put a stop to Niles' sucking before he got him off too quickly.

"Get up here, I want to fuck you," he said harshly, pushing firmly at Niles' shoulders to signal he should stop. The younger doctor released his cock and climbed into his lap, steadying John's rod beneath him as he slid himself onto it, the wetness from being in his mouth just enough to get it in. John thought he caught a look of pain in the boy's face, but tossed it aside. It was soft and hot and pliant, and from the hiss of the younger man's breath John got the impression he wasn't on the receiving end of these situations often.

"Does it hurt, Sherlock?" he asked, giving into his fantasy. He imagined he would have been the detective's first, and he ran his hands up his back, massaging, attempting to get the tense body on his lap to relax.

"Yes… " gasped the younger man, and John moaned as he clenched around him, moving up and down on him slowly. "But the pleasure is more…mm…distracting…"

John leaned in and sucked a red mark into the pale skin above his collarbone, teeth grazing against him and eliciting a soft moan from the brunette. It was a possessive mark - _his _detective, _his _Sherlock, he said to himself - and the younger man was loving it. Niles tangled his hands in the doctor's neat, sandy hair, head thrown back in pleasure as he rode John. They found a rhythm, John thrusting to meet each downward fall of the other man's, reading from his louder moans, from his facial expression that he was hitting the right spot. It was good, undeniably good, and the doctor had to grit his teeth and think of dead women in pink coats to last as long as he did.

"Sherlock, I'm going to… inside you…" he ground out, half a moan and half a growl, lips capturing Niles' ear. The brunette cried out in response, spilling out onto John's lower abdomen. The look of pleasure on his face, coupled with the simple thought of finishing in Sherlock sent him tumbling over the edge, crying out the consulting detective's name and holding the slender form tightly to him before they both collapsed in a heap against each other, John's back sticking to the chair with sweat and Niles breathing heavily against his neck.

"Your shoulder…" he murmured, and John stiffened as he felt lips press against his scar.

"Don't - "

"Bullet wound. The bullet entered at an angle, you were moving at the time," said the brunette, finger tracing the line between the scar tissue and the healthy flesh. John shivered. "An automatic rifle, from marks here and here - " he slid his fingers over smaller, linear scars above his shoulder and at his side. " - where stray bullets grazed by but didn't quite find their mark… shot clean through, missed the important things. No major damage, but stiffness…" The doctor grasped his hands, pulling them away.

"You can stop playing detective now," he said, though he had to admit he found the idea of Sherlock examining his body alluring.

"I'm not playing detective, John," said the younger man, and when John looked and noticed Niles' cheeky smile, he realized the difference. "I'm playing doctor." It was strange, thinking for the moment of being so intimate with Niles. When they played Sherlock and John it was different, entirely mental, entirely detached - but there was no denying the young surgeon in his lap, leaking his own juices all over him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. John didn't know how he felt about that.

"Well, very clever. Might we… ehm. Clean up a bit?" he said awkwardly, hands resting on Niles shoulders to push him away. The effect Niles' hurt expression had on John was surprising, making him wrap his arms around the slender form and hug it to him again. The warmth, the physical intimacy was something he wanted, _needed_, but it was strange acknowledging he was receiving it from the other doctor. John felt a pang of guilt - he was using the poor boy to fulfill his fantasies. He was being selfish. And Niles was only doing this for him.

"It's okay, John. I know you love him. It's okay," came the soft voice, and John felt a hand stroking through his hair.

"Yes," he said, heaving a sigh. "I… I love - but it's not - no. That doesn't make any of this fair, does it? Still… thanks. For this." Niles nudged his nose into John's neck, and the doctor could feel him smile against his skin.

"Whenever you want me, John."

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the delay! Been caught up with work and all. I've got another one nearly ready for you, too, and it's a bit of a doozy, so please bear with me. We're almost at the end, I think... yes, we're definitely nearly there.

Thanks so much for reading, you guys. :) Any thoughts so far?


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Very near the end, I think. My greatest appreciation and thanks to all of you that have stuck with me through to the end! Thanks for reading and the kind reviews. :)

**Warning: **Violence! Be warned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's hands were white-knuckled against the armrest of the chair, his muscles and his joints stiff. He had not moved from that position since he started watching the video feed, hours poured into the examination of previous recordings and now <em>this<em> - at the sight of the two nude forms reclining no the couch he looked away, scarcely breathing. Ice and fire fought over the insides of his veins, and he enraged himself by noticing the bulge straining at the front of his suit pants.

"Don't know quite what to do with it, do you?" asked a voice by the door, and Sherlock swiveled the chair away from Mycroft, causally drawing his coat into his lap to cover himself up.

"I know exactly what to do with it."

"Do you?"

Mycroft stepped into the room, his eyes on the pair on the screen.

"Well if he's quite content to get himself bedded and eaten far be it from _me_ to - "

"_Sherlock._"

The two Holmes traded angry glares, and for once Sherlock was the one to turn away. He didn't understand this - he couldn't compute this. There was bitterness in his mouth and stinging in his eyes, but Sherlock wasn't the type of man to cry._ Caring is not an advantage_, he told himself. But why was he there at all, in London, when he should have been quietly biding his time, systematically burning out the rest of Moriarty's network elsewhere if he didn't care?

Yes, he did care. It was the only logical conclusion. Now what was he going to do with that data?

"For all your powers of observation, you can be incredibly naïve," drawled Mycroft, leaning against the video console and tapping a finger to the screen. "Dr. Watson seems to be able, on a daily basis, to succeed in deducing something that you aren't capable of comprehending."

"And what's that?" Mycroft leaned in, his eyebrows raising and his eyes widening in that expression that Sherlock hated - the one that had been telling them since they were old enough to coherently understand each other that he was missing something important.

"What he _wants_."

Sherlock was grateful to be distracted from his brother by the movement on screen. He watched as John stood, disentangling himself from the younger man and moving off towards his room - Sherlock's room. The detective couldn't help but feel a strange ambivalence at the idea of John sleeping in his bed, his mental eye transfixed on a room in his mind palace dedicated to the way John's body had looked while he touched himself on Sherlock's sheets. There was an indirect intimacy in the thought of it, one that made the detective's stomach drop and body warm. Was that… desire? Yes, of course it was. But what an invasion of privacy it had been! Then again, flatsharing was an invasion of privacy in and of itself. The sound of a door closing pulled the consulting detective from his thoughts and he brought his eyes to the screen. The young surgeon had been seated with his head against the arm of the chair, supposedly sleeping. At the sound of the door he had raised his gaze, looked the camera in the eye and winked.

Sherlock stood and swept on his coat and scarf in one fluid motion. He noted that Mycroft was abysmal at hiding smirks and strode past him to the door.

"Where are you going, Sherlock?"

The detective met his brother's eyes and the challenge there with a stone-set face and a determined glare.

"To get what _I_ want. Now give me a car."

Sherlock had to admit as he sat in the back of one of his brother's luxurious black cars that being related to Mycroft Holmes had its perks. Eyes scanned the car's interior - fancy leather, spotlessly clean, occupied only by himself, the driver, and the assistant who persisted on being on her cell phone regardless of whether or not she was doing anything meaningful on it. Sherlock glanced over at the movements of her fingers and registered that she had sent only one text in the fifteen minutes they'd been driving, and spent the rest of the time admiring the colorful, shifting background on her screen - or, he surmised, observing him out of the corner of her eye with the purpose of reporting to his brother later, which might possibly have been the more likely case.

They were ten minutes from Baker Street when Sherlock sent the message.

_Rooftop. Ten minutes. -SH _

He could only assume that Niles would bring John with him, regardless of whether or not he specified to come alone. Leverage was what the doctor was, like a hostage that didn't know he'd ever been taken. Sherlock couldn't, wouldn't simply ensure Niles' disappearance - he had implanted himself too deeply into John's life for that. But Sherlock couldn't leave him off either. And Niles, for whatever reason, was enthralled by the both of them. The detective could see that Niles was using their little quandary - and the cover of Baker Street and its position as media black spot, its relative low profile with the police - to enjoy himself, and it didn't help that most everyone he'd operated on at Bart's would come to his defense.

There was no way around their little game.

The young surgeon was waiting for him when he clambered up the fire escape, perched on the edge of the roof with a cloth and a sabre in his hands, another blade balanced across his lap. Sherlock eyed them warily, noting their sharpness and lack of plastic safety nibs - they were lethal blades, or had been sharpened to be.

"Care for a bout, Sherlock?" asked Niles, setting the cloth down beside him and taking both blades into his hands. He approached the detective and offered him a sabre, hilt-first. Sherlock's eyes glanced at the reddish bruise, the slight imprint of teeth low on the other man's neck - Niles had come topless, clad only in his pajama bottoms for the purpose of showing it off, no doubt - and fought the urge to lunge forward with the sabre and impale the young surgeon on its blade.

"Or would you rather run me through?"

Sherlock took the sabre and Niles took a few steps back, bending his knees a few times to test their pliancy. He took the stance of a practiced fencer - though Sherlock read in the angling of his feet that he hadn't been _practiced_ at it for a few years. He had been distracted by other recreational activities.

"Used to love it, fencing," said Niles, taking a practice lunge, his blade swinging a foot from Sherlock's face. "Most fencing's like flirting, really - back and forth, teasing each other, trying to figure out who's going to make the first move and how to respond to it. I much prefer the sabre. More direct, more… aggressive. You lunge - " The surgeon took a step forward and lunged at him, his blade coming in from Sherlock's right. He batted it aside and took a step back, raising his sabre in preparation for another attack.

"Good! I lunge, you parry, the sequence continues. Of course I'm out of practice. Haven't had the time lately, with… you know, everything I've been up to. Do you have any answers for me, incidentally?" Sherlock watched his feet, mirrored his stance.

"You ate them," he said simply, stepping forward and feinting a cut to Niles' wrist before swinging down at his other side. Niles anticipated and parried the blade away, moving in to mark Sherlock's neck - the detective leapt away. "Your first mistake was where you chose to drug me - in the alley, where I could see your car and your helpers. Who are they, caretakers? A butler, perhaps? You take them back to that family home in East Finchley, likely some specialized room you have made up, chop them up, bring some of the meat back… here."

Sherlock advanced on him, making the surgeon retreat, and moved as if he were feinting at his wrist. Niles saw the dip in his blade and went to parry a blow coming to his other side as he had before - Sherlock used the opening to score a cut on his original target, a thin line of blood emerging on Niles' wrist. The surgeon retreated a few steps and drew his tongue against the cut, humming with his now red-tinged lips.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! You do read people quite well, don't you? Still, though, that isn't all there is to my puzzle, is there? No, that was just the bonus." The surgeon advanced quickly, and Sherlock found himself retreating, almost stumbling over his steps as attacks came one after the other, the younger man's speed surprising him. Niles stopped and stood straight and Sherlock caught his breath, maintaining his stance. The boy wasn't done yet. "You still haven't told me why, Sherlock. Why am I at Baker Street at all, why come back and hunt all those people in London when I would've done perfectly well where I was? I'll leave him alone, as promised, if you've got an answer for me. Although," and Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he raised a finger to the mark on his neck. "John may be just the tiniest bit upset. He has gotten quite fond of me, I think. You know, I was wrong about him. He wears dominance very well. Must be the soldier in him… so very suited to barking out orders to people on their knees."

Sherlock swallowed, began an advance on the surgeon again. He wasn't about to let himself be distracted by inappropriate thoughts of John and his military attitude now.

"It's a cover," Sherlock said, finding his sabre locked in one of Niles' parries. "No one will investigate Baker Street after that fiasco with my suicide. And Lestrade is far too sentimental to come at it for anything criminal. And John, John is leverage - "

"No, no, no!" Niles took a step in, twisting his blade and using the momentum to rip Sherlock's sabre out of his hand.

"That's all convenient, yes," he said tapping Sherlock on the head with the flat of his blade. "But what's the big picture, Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock took advantage of the surgeon's moment of arrogance and grabbed his arm, turning him and tackling him to the ground, his sabre and the arm that held it twisted painfully against his back. His mind raced, running through interactions with Niles, everything they'd said when they had first met in the living room of Baker Street, the comments he made about John, the way he looked at him when he talked - the murders, the lack of connection between them, their lack of importance…

"This is all about me. Somehow, all of this has been about me," he said, and the boy beneath him laughed.

"Quite sexy when you're being forceful, Mr. Holmes. And quite right! Do go on."

Sherlock wrestled the sword from his hand and tossed it aside, keeping Niles pressed against the rooftop.

"Who the victims were is irrelevant. The murders were just a tool - like John. All of it was to get me involved. But why? What do I matter to you? You were in Germany for most of your adult life, how have you even heard of me?"

"Come now, that would be giving it away. You're not getting partial credit for that, either. Think, my dear detective!"

Sherlock scrambled, snatched and groped for information - but he didn't have nearly enough to go on. He slipped his hand into the younger man's pocket and snatched his phone before standing and backing off, quickly picking up a sabre from the ground and holding it to his neck to keep him from getting to his feet. He didn't know. He had assumptions, but they were farfetched, outrageous. He had thought Niles might have connections beyond being wealthy but he seemed like he'd been working alone - although that bit with the murder-suicide of one of his victims did seem to have something more to it - so he took his phone, and was alarmed at the lack of security.

He immediately realized why when he saw the device had been wiped. So he'd had connections, but was being careful not to reveal them.

"I can memorize messages and phone numbers, you know. I rarely need to keep them on my phone." He tapped a finger to his temple, and Sherlock dug the point of his blade into the skin below Niles' right shoulder.

"Well then. It's easy enough getting those out of you, isn't it?" he said, his voice lowered by a register. He knew the threat in his words reached his eyes - the resulting excitement in Niles' face was proof of that. Niles let out a gasp as the sabre cut slowly across his back and withdrew. He didn't move, didn't squirm, only breathed as the point rested against the base of his skull.

"I don't deny that you could, Mr. Holmes," he said, his back bleeding freely now. "You're not quite the hero John makes you out to be, are you?" The surgeon laughed, then screamed as Sherlock dug the sabre into his back again, this time driving the point through muscle and into the bone of his scapula and twisting.

"You know, don't you, the effect these wounds are going to have on your movements? The damage I'm doing to your nervous system… it will be months before the tremors are gone from your arm. Or shall I destroy your hands, as well?" Sherlock moved the blade slowly, grinding against bone, moving over his scapula towards his arm. "Shall I deprive you of the only thing in the world you legitimately love?"

The young surgeon's eyes widened and for the first time Sherlock saw fear in his eyes. Inspired by it, he withdrew the sabre and drove his foot down against Niles' forearm, pinning it in place.

"No - don't - "

"Then tell me what I want to know." He wasn't surprised by his capacity for violence. He hadn't been lying to Moriarty when he'd threatened him on the roof of St. Bart's, and he certainly hadn't been blowing hot air when he said he could force Niles to divulge the information. The surgeon lay still on the rooftop, panting from the pain in his back. Sherlock read the altered level of consciousness in his face and resolved to end it quickly.

"Give me _names_," he hissed, and dug the point of the sabre into the back of the surgeon's hand.

He saw the smile on his lips too late.

"What the _hell _are you doing!"

The blood drained from Sherlock's face and the sabre fell to the rooftop with a clatter.

John Watson stood at the top of the fire escape, a look of horror on his face.


	18. Chapter 18

__A/N: Very nearly there, my friends. The next chapter will be the last, I'm sure. And sorry about the delay! School and work caught me up.

* * *

><p><em>John…<em> Sherlock's mouth felt dry. Of course Niles had told him to follow him up - of course he'd been goading him into doing something stupid! He cursed himself for being so predictable. John looked positively terrified, the expression on his face as he locked eyes with detective enough to send an unfamiliar wash of guilt into Sherlock's chest. He hadn't wanted John to see this. But surely John would understand if he explained? But what in the world would he say?

_You've been living with a serial killer, John._ Yes, that would help with the shock. _He's been feeding you his victims._ And that would be equally as comforting. _Here I am John, so why don't you go ahead and sack your stand-in? Actually, I've already done that for you… _Absolutely brilliant. Sherlock stood over the surgeon, breathing heavily. He must have looked manic. He raised his eyes to the doctor, just managed to catch a glimpse of the sandy-blonde blur as a heavy fist crashed into the side of his face. Sherlock stumbled backwards, cheek stinging, tasting blood, and resisted the urge to smile. _I'm a soldier! I killed people!_ said the memory in his head.

There was a silence, and Sherlock almost anticipated another blow. Instead he heard the click of a cocked gun, his head shooting up as the gunfire sounded, a single round echoing into the darkening sky.

Niles lay dead on the ground, a steady flow of blood pouring from the wound in his head. Sherlock looked at John in alarm. The soldier's face was carefully guarded, his eyes honed and focused on the body in front of him. But Sherlock saw the faltering in his features, anticipated the failing of his knees and was there with a hand at his back when he dropped to the ground with an "Oh Christ" and a heavy breath.

"When did you learn?" Sherlock asked quietly and John shook his head.

"I didn't. He… he told me. Or rather… showed me."

The doctor pulled his phone out of his pocket and Sherlock tilted his head quizzically at it as he pulled up a list of long exchanges between himself and Niles, most of them texts but for the last few, which were a series of photos of such a graphic nature that Sherlock tightened the grip of his hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"When did he send these to you?" Sherlock said, taking the phone from John and flipping through the pictures. He saw hints of what must have been the room in his home at East Finchley, dismembered limbs, what looked like freshly cut slabs of meat, a picture of the fridge at Baker Street and what looked like an exquisitely prepared steak - and then a captioned picture, a microphotograph of some bacterium that looked familiar to the detective -

_Rooftop. Could be dangerous. - Niles_

"Clostridium botulinum," said Sherlock quietly before tucking the phone away in John's pocket. The doctor raised an eyebrow, finally breaking his stare away from the body in front of him.

"I don't know… half an hour - what?"

"Let's get off the roof. We can phone Lestrade for the body," said Sherlock, heaving at his friend. John budged slowly, and the detective found himself half exasperated and half endeared by his clumsy movements. The man had been through quite a revelation in the past few hours. Whoever Niles had been working with was watching, Sherlock knew, so instead of moving quickly he wrapped his arms around the doctor and clasped him close to his chest. The less suspicious they looked, the better - he was almost certain the photos the surgeon sent would get the lot of them into trouble. "Act natural," the detective whispered, and he felt the doctor's body go rigid against his.

"What are you doing?" whispered John, seeming to have forgotten how to speak and breathe at the same time. Sherlock extended the doctor to an arm's length.

"Embracing you, John. Isn't that what friends do when one's been away for a time?" he said, matter-of-factly, as if there weren't a dead bleeding body at their feet and incriminating photographs on their mobile phones. _And a possible gunman watching us from afar,_ Sherlock thought, his eyes fighting the urge to dart about the cityscape past the doctor.

"Well, yeah, but you don't hug people, Sherlock. It's - um. Weird."

"You're not people, John. Now come, downstairs."

The detective grabbed him by the wrist and led him at a leisurely stroll to the fire escape and below, but John paused at the lip of the roof and looked back at the body of the young surgeon.

"Don't… don't call Lestrade," he said, and Sherlock cocked his head at him. How very like John to become sentimental over a killer - the man's addiction to finding the good nature in people was borderline childish.

"The proof is on that phone, John. There's plenty of evidence to incriminate."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I don't want him called," said the doctor. "He… do you know how many people would be upset by this? At Bart's? How many patients loved him? It would _break them. They can't know. No one can." _

_Sherlock looked at him, saw the definitiveness in his features and decided John had a point. It was the genius of his ability to connect, or pretend at it that made people so heavily dependent on him. He saw the effect on his patients, and he saw the effect on John. _

"_Then how do you propose we deal with it?" the detective asked, and John gave him a queer look that mildly perturbed the detective, partly because he had never seen it on John's face before, and partly because it bore shades of an expression the dead doctor on their roof once wore. _

"_I'll take care of it," said John. _


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Dear Lord, sorry that took me so long. Here you are, and thanks for reading, and I do hope you enjoyed it. I'll give you one more - an epilogue - because I feel it's necessary, and thank you again for sticking with me through it all.

**Warning: **Porn.

* * *

><p>John hadn't been watching for the headline when he saw it on Sherlock's morning paper. After the business was over and done with he'd simply put it out of his mind, only thinking of it when he Yard came calling in response to the missing persons he'd put in after disposing of Niles. He had acted concerned and Sherlock had hidden in his room - which they were still sorting out, though Sherlock seemed less than perturbed by John's things, which was surprising - mostly because they'd agreed to let the whole Niles business simmer down a bit before letting anyone into the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and back in London.<p>

"You're a wonder, John, and I think I may have underestimated you," said the detective, folding the newspaper in his hands and setting it on the desk beside his pristine breakfast plate. "Graphic murder - beloved doctor found shot and mutilated in the Thames, no known suspects. St. Bart's patients mourn the loss of their 'guardian angel'…"

John only cleared his throat and dug into his breakfast, the click-clack of metal on porcelain all he would do to respond to Sherlock just then. He didn't feel like talking about it - about the hours of bleaching he'd done on the roof, the sneaking about the city at odd hours of the evening, the things they promised they'd do for Mycroft in return for his assistance in covering it up - and he certainly wasn't sure what to say to Sherlock that morning. It had been just a few days since their, John thought, rather traumatizing reunion, and things almost felt as though he'd never left, except for the sleeping arrangements. Sherlock had insisted on taking Niles' old room - _post-mortem studying_, he'd said - and allowed John to keep his, though there were hints of the arrangement being temporary.

"From the description, I'd say our surgeon friend was missing more than I cut out of him when he was found," continued the detective. John felt his eyes on him as he cut into his steak.

"Yeah, well… had to cut out some things. Might've been - you know. Incriminating."

"The only incriminating thing would have been the bullet hole, and that was clearly left in place," pressed Sherlock. "What cut of steak is that, by the way? Doesn't quite look like rib-eye or sirloin, does it?"

"I don't know, got it at the shop. I don't exactly pay attention to steak cuts, Sherlock." John flicked his eyes to the detective then back down at his plate, which was empty now. It had been delicious, John decided guiltily, almost sinfully so. And it would be the last time he'd have it. He couldn't quite explain why he had done it - nostalgia, maybe, or maybe Niles had had more of an affect on him than he'd realized - and it disgusted him to think of it, but it had been automatic, it had been a blur. Before he knew it it had been on the stovetop, then on his plate, then in his mouth. There was a very distinct taste to it, and John couldn't quite get it out of his mouth - it lingered, gave him cravings, set his teeth on edge - but John was absolutely sure this would be the last time. If only because John was no murderer.

"Are you alright, John? You have been eating people," came Sherlock's voice, and John dropped his knife.

"Sorry, what?" he blundered.

"You know. His victims. You two were sharing them for dinner, that was how he got rid of them. It'd be a traumatic experience for anyone, so I thought maybe you were… distressed."

"Well - yeah, of course. It's horrifying. I - uh. Bit in shock, I suppose. You know. Not quite hitting me."

"Would you like a blanket?"

John let out an awkward laugh, memories of Sherlock in a bright orange blanket floating up to his mind's eye.

"No, no I - don't be comforting, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you," he said with a small smile. It was nice having the detective back. No - it was more than nice. It was so absolutely… good that John didn't know how to deal with it, or with the way Sherlock had been acting. It was as if he was trying for amicability instead of what he normally did, which John didn't know what to call. Sherlockian abrasion?

"And how would you like me to be?"

The question caught John off guard and for a moment he simply looked at the detective, caught the stare of the piercing grey-blue eyes he'd been pretending had been there for the past half a year. He resisted the urge to rake his eyes over the detective's body, lounging in pajamas and fitted gray t-shirt and dressing gown, imagining him in less - he looked away. Sherlock would notice if he stared too long.

"Just… yourself. That'll be fine," he said, and he was glad when St. Bart's called him in to work that day.

The hospital was full of crying and condolence, but John almost preferred it to Baker Street. Having Sherlock home so suddenly was surreal, unbelievable and strange. He liked it, of course - the detective was all he could think about all day - but he was out of his mind with trepidation. How much did Sherlock know about what went on between him and Niles? Everything, was John's guess. Sherlock always knew everything, always bloody deduced everything, and the idea that he knew of the things he and Niles did together - of the times John had him _play detective_ - it was beyond embarrassing. Except that John was sure Sherlock would have made more than a snide comment or two about it if he did know.

It was a strangely quiet flat that greeted him when he came home, signs of Sherlock's normal investigative activity absent despite his recent curiosity in the photos Niles had sent to his phone.

"Sherlock?" he called, anxiety leaping into his chest when he received no answer. The thought of the detective disappearing on him again was heart-wrenching. He barreled through the living room, went up into his bedroom, into the kitchen -

"Sherlock?" he called louder, finally moving into his bedroom - Sherlock's old bedroom - knocking over piles of books with the open swing of the door. John's breath screeched to a halt in his throat as he caught sight of the detective, sprawled out on the bed with his curls in a messy tumble on his face and distinctly lacking in the upper garment department. His eyes were closed, his chin tilted upwards, one hand clasped around a left forearm that sported three nicotine patches.

"Erm. You know if you want the room back, you can have it. I don't mind," said John, and the detective's eyes snapped open and he let out a gasping breath.

"Did Lestrade come to question you at the hospital?" he said, and there was a sunken feeling in the pit of John's stomach when he heard the liquid baritone speak.

"No, actually. No one's been by - "

"Good, then he'll be coming here. But he'll be a while yet. Have a seat," he said, and patted briefly at the edge of the bed by his right hip.

"Sit. Er - right. Why?" John shifted uncomfortably on his feet, aware of the increasing discomfort he was feeling in his trousers. He was glad Sherlock was staring so intently at the ceiling - if he'd seen him then he'd likely have read something inappropriate into his body language, and John wasn't ready for that kind of conversation, he was sure.

"Because I need you for something."

"I can send a text from here, thanks."

"No, John!" He turned his head, dark curls bouncing, and John retreated into the doorway. He saw the slight twitch of the detective's lips as his eyes snatched a survey of the doctor's posture. When he spoke again he sounded self-righteously miffed, making John roll his eyes fondly at him. "It's not a text. It's much more involved, and much more important! Now come here."

Reluctantly the doctor sat himself on the edge of the bed, his back to the detective. He tried to focus on something other than the fact that he was sharing a bed, however innocuously, with Sherlock Holmes for an undisclosed scientific experiment.

"Alright, now what?"

Suddenly he felt slender arms wrapping around his waist, the lean-muscled frame giving him a mighty tug and sending him sprawling on top of the topless detective. John felt himself hit the surprising warmth - for some reason, he always figured Sherlock would feel cold, with all that pallor - and attempted to pick himself up almost immediately. Sherlock's arms stayed firmly set around John's waist, preventing him from pulling away. Heaving a sigh John turned, propping himself up on his hands and knees atop the detective and offering him what he hoped was an exasperated glare. Sherlock's hands moved here and there on his back, as if unsure where to seat themselves, finally settling for gripping his belt loops.

"Okay. What are we doing, then?"

"Hiding. Our dear surgeon had contacts, but he was supposed to make it seem as if he was acting alone, which he did, up until he sent you these photographs. Now, why exactly he sent them to you is irrelevant, but the fact remains that his contacts don't know that we know that they exist, and our best chance to discover them is to keep it that way. Do you see?"

John did not, in fact, see much of anything past Sherlock's face and its proximity to his own - aside from, that is, the chest and neck that were attached to them.

"And… why aren't you wearing a shirt, then?"

"Minor details, John! Pay attention!" Sherlock said, reaching up and grasping the doctor by the sides of the face. Had John been focused at all he might have seen the mischief in the detective's eyes, but he was far too distracted. "We can't let them know that we are investigating. Distraction is what we need - we need to seem distracted! Don't doubt for a second that they're watching, though I'm fairly sure I checked thoroughly enough for listening bugs… " the detective trailed off and John blinked at him thickly. Distraction, he had said. Was he really implying they do what John thought he was implying they do? All for a cover-up for their investigation?

"Sherlock, there are a _multitude _of other ways to pretend we aren't working!" he said, but his throat was dry and his protest came half-hearted.

"Yes, John, however… given your recent habits I assumed this would be the most enjoyable method."

John's stomach sank. So Sherlock did know about the things he'd done with Niles. The doctor hung his head.

"No. I - I'm not doing this. Not like this," he said, shaking his head. "It shouldn't - this isn't something you just _do_, Sherlock."

"Isn't it? Observation would indicate otherwise."

"That was… different. That's not the way it should be with _you_, alright? That's… not the way I _want_ it to be with you."

Avoiding Sherlock's eyes he tried to pull away, found that the detective wasn't quite ready to let him go, and sighed. John was frustrated. He was used to Sherlock handling things insensitively, but this? This was just the slightest bit too far, and the tiniest bit too tempting. He swallowed hard and tried in vain to will his growing erection away.

"Look, Sherlock, just leave off, alright? I'm not doing this if all it is is a cover to you."

"I never said it was. Weren't you listening?"

The doctor hesitated, hazarding a glance at Sherlock's face. It was unreadable, as always, but for the slight smile and the challenge in his eyes - but there was something else, and he wasn't quite sure what to say about it, mostly because he wasn't quite sure what it was.

"What d'you mean?"

"When I said it would be the most enjoyable method, I never said that was only in reference to _you_. Don't be self-centered, John, it doesn't suit you."

John licked his lips, unsure how to proceed.

"Then - you… you want to do this? With me?"

"Yes, obviously," came the reply, and John thought he saw a hint of red tinge the detective's cheeks despite the arrogant smirk.

"But have you - are you sure? I mean, have you ever done this before, Sherlock?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh of his own, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, what does it matter whether or not I've done it before! I want to, I've said as much, and you want to from the obscene bulge in your pants, your diaphoretic skin and your rapidly escalating heart rate, so get _on_ with it and stop stalling!"

John couldn't suppress a smile. A glance downward at the pajama pants that clung to his hips gave him the evidence he needed that the detective was being honest, and the poor doctor almost drooled thinking of what was hiding underneath the tent Sherlock was pitching. But he shook his head and leaned in, simply resting his forehead against the detective's. This was Sherlock's first time, he was sure of it, and he had to make sure it went smoothly.

"Actually, it matters, Sherlock. There're some things we've got to do, or it'll… well, hurt. We've got some lube leftover from before and - " he was interrupted by the sudden flurry of movement as Sherlock used the grip he had on his waist to roll them over, and suddenly he had topless detective hovering over him and devouring him with his eyes.

"It would _matter_, John, if you were right in assuming you're going to be the one entering me," growled the detective, and at once John wondered if the knowledge of what he did with Niles had any affect on Sherlock sexually, and whether or not he'd been frustrated all this time, had wanted to _do things _all this time. His aggression certainly seemed the product of a long, long while of pent-up tension. He stopped wondering how far back Sherlock began to want him - _as much as I wanted Sherlock_, he mused - when the detective's lips captured his in a kiss, and all coherent thought came to an explosive, decisive halt. The kiss was hungry and experimental. Sherlock's inexperience was matched by his innate ability to read people - he was a quick study, if his motions were halting and unsure at first. The kiss deepened and John thought he felt a sneak of tongue, his pants twitching at the feel of the soft muscle between his lips. Then Sherlock pulled away, a devilish smile on his features and a matching spark in his eyes in the low light.

"But you couldn't be more wrong. _I'm_ going to be coming in _you_ tonight."

John didn't find the heart to protest as Sherlock dug at his shirt, dexterous fingers undoing buttons and stripping away clothing from the doctor's quickly warming body. In short time Sherlock had him naked underneath him, and the doctor quivered under that stare.

"The tension in your hips and legs… your limp came back shortly after I left, didn't it?" whispered the detective, slender fingers trailing up John's thigh, pressing into muscle, probing. John swallowed and nodded.

"Wasn't quite… the same, without you to run me about London…" he answered. He bit his lip when the fingers danced teasingly close to the rock-hard member waiting nestled in a bed of sandy curls. Sherlock, _his _Sherlock, was pouring over his body, taking every inch of bone and muscle and sinew and reading him in it, and it was enough to melt John against the bed sheet and make him want nothing more than to have the detective melting into him.

"Forgive me," said Sherlock, his lips pressing against the shell of John's ear. The passion and hunger with which he'd stripped John remained, but a flicker of genuine apology bled out into those words, and the doctor nodded. Sherlock brought their lips together for another kiss, his hips grinding forward against John's, bare, hot skin touching the cool, silken pajamas and the warmth of Sherlock's own erection underneath it. John groaned and canted up into him, making the detective's breath catch from the sudden pressure against him. Impatient, John reached down and gave a tug at the waistband of Sherlock's pajama pants, dragging them down to his knees. Sherlock struggled out of them then kicked them off the bed, and John was treated to a view of stark-naked detective.

"My God, you're gorgeous," he breathed, and he took in the image, the entire image of the detective's form - the well-sculpted muscles, the pale skin, the perfectly-Sherlock mess of dark curls, the slant of his eyes, the high-set cheekbones - and was floored. He was Sherlock, really, completely, entirely Sherlock. And was he blushing at a compliment?

"I'm partial to the soldier type myself," said the detective, and John let out a breathy giggle, pushing gently on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sit back. I want to do something for you," said John, and he sighed at the questioning expression in Sherlock's features. "No not - with my mouth, Sherlock." The realization came hot and pink to Sherlock's face and John grinned at the detective's ignorance. He sat back, and at John's bidding leaned back on his hands, his legs parted to give the soldier access to the erection throbbing needily against his lower abdomen. John was the slightest bit ashamed when he leaned in, trailing his tongue up sack to tip, the movements of his tongue and lips very carefully learned from Niles - but they were making Sherlock Holmes shiver and buck against his lips, so John decided to ignore the guilt. He wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock's cock and slid down, his tongue teasing against the slit of his opening, circling his crown before pressing flat against the bottom vein, making the detective cry out.

"John," he moaned, and there was something about Sherlock moaning his name that set John's body on fire. He sucked and he licked and he moved, up and down on the firm, slender member, watching Sherlock's chest begin to heave, his hands fist the bed sheets, his skin start to shimmer with sweat. It was from practice - and he had to thank Niles for this, too - that he could take quite a bit of Sherlock into his mouth, only gagging once or twice at the start when he hit the back of his throat. Then he picked up a rhythm and Sherlock stopped him, his voice a hiss.

"Careful, I… I can't…" and John nodded and pulled away, eliciting another hiss from the detective as the cool air hit his wet skin. Of course Sherlock was going to be sensitive - John doubted that he even masturbated, though the thought of Sherlock clutching at his privates in a darkened room did things to John's nether regions. Feeling mischievous he leaned in and gave the detective a sloppy kiss, for which he was awarded a bite on the lower lip and a shove back against the bed sheets.

John didn't have to question what would happen next when a clear tube and a condom appeared in Sherlock's hands.

"Are you ready?" he asked John, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, and John nodded.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock. It'll be better than fine."

One pale hand lifted a leg up against his shoulder, the other coating his cock in a healthy amount of lube before guiding it against John, the warmth making the detective let out a breath. Another moment's hesitation and Sherlock was pushing in, sliding slowly, and it was all John could do to try and relax. Seconds of tightness, of brief pain, and Sherlock was in all the way, tip nudging against a spot that made John rock back against him.

"G-Good, Sherlock. You okay?" he said, worried when the detective paused again. Sherlock nodded.

"It feels good, John. You feel good." John nodded, reaching up to cup the curl-framed face.

"Sherlock, I… " and the detective cut him off with a kiss.

"Shh."

John didn't dare try to speak again because Sherlock was moving now, in and out of him, deep, careful thrusts that were perfectly aimed by the deductions the detective was making from John's reactions. But John was grasping at him, clutching at his arms, his body rising and squirming.

"How do you want it, John? Tell me."

And John knew instantly it wasn't because he didn't know.

"Faster, Sherlock. Please," he gasped. The possessive edge in his eyes made John whimper - he wanted to hear it from the doctor that he wanted _him_, Sherlock, to fuck him faster, to take him harder, not any substitute, not anyone else. John had a guilty love for how jealous he was being of his time with Niles.

The detective obliged, picking up speed, beginning to pant and groan deep gutteral noises that sent John into deep, dark realms of his imagination.

"H-Harder," he managed, his voice nothing but frantic breaths. Soon Sherlock was pounding him, and the bed was shaking so hard against the wall he was sure someone would hear and investigate. In the midst of his cries of 'Sherlock!' and 'Jesus Christ!' he heard the whisperings of his name on Sherlock's lips, saw the glazing of his eyes and felt the tensing of him inside him. He reached for his own cock and Sherlock batted his hand away, and his world dissolved into the motions of the detective's hand around him and the detective's cock thrusting in and out of him. Sherlock seemed determined to do everything, to claim John - and his orgasm - entirely as his own. John marveled at how easily he could coordinate, the thrusts falling into rhythm with his hand perfectly after the first stumbling attempts.

"Sherlock - dear God - you're fantastic!" he cried out, seeing stars. "I'm going to - I'm - " and he shot stickiness all over his chest and abdomen, his body tensing and quivering around the thrusting member that, consequently began pumping its own juices inside him.

"John - John!"

The detective thrust in deep, the feeling of him pulsing making John grip tight into the bed sheets, his cock throbbing and leaking over Sherlock's hand. When they were spent and the detective pulled out, disposing of their used protection with a grimace and collapsing in a heap at his doctor's side. It was a while before either of them spoke, though John moved and wrapped his arm around the slender figure and pulled him close. Nothing in the world mattered in that moment, nothing but the fact that Sherlock Holmes was next to him, allowing him closer than, he imagined, anyone had ever been.

"Sherlock?"

He was greeted by a snore. John chuckled and laid a kiss against his forehead before tucking his head in against the curls.

"Good night, Sherlock."


	20. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was many things. He was a detective, a genius, a computer, at times - often called childish, often called naïve. He had been dead once, at least to the public eye - but then again, he had been a virgin once, too, and been forced to abruptly stop being both in the name of pleasing one Dr. John Hamish Watson. Sherlock was quite sure forced was the wrong word for it, as he had done it all quite purposefully, which is to say he wanted nothing more when he was away than to come back to John, and wanted nothing more when he'd returned than to be more intimate with John than their previous acquaintance.<p>

But what puzzled Sherlock Holmes was what he was currently being, which was flustered and out of breath and completely uncoordinated. He sat behind his newspaper in a formal shirt and dress pants, his dressing gown draped about his shoulders, being utterly floored by John Watson.

And all John was doing was making tea.

Sherlock understood the chemistry of lust. He knew the body and the hormones it secreted to make the blood pump downwards, fill the soft tissues of other places than his brain, make him want to do terrible, nasty things to John in the bedroom, and against the counters, and in the shower. He knew what he wanted to do, and that they did it now, on a regular basis, when the detective wasn't too busy tracing possibilities of the man who had started this whole mess being alive. Sherlock had half-believed that was all it was - dispensing of tension and frustration so he could focus. Moriarty surviving was an important, very important priority, after all. The picture of the _Clostridium botulinum _strain Niles had sent them was clue enough to that end. And of course he'd want Sherlock back in London, rather than out in the world wreaking havoc on his criminal web. Sherlock had played into the plan, he realized that, but what bothered Sherlock was that he didn't care.

In fact, he cared much more that morning about the color of John's jumper, and how it matched the teapot in his hand marvelously.

Sherlock felt a flutter in his stomach and a beat in his chest, felt the pink in his cheeks and heard the words come tumbling out before the guards of his mind palace could catch them.

"I love you," he said, and he was glad he had his newspaper to cover his face. He heard a crash as John dropped the teapot.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock remained silent. He heard the footsteps as John approached, looked away as the paper was ripped from his hands.

"What did you say?"

He hazarded a glance at John's face, brimming over with guarded excitement and the slightest bit of anxiety. He could tell John was afraid, afraid he'd misheard, afraid of getting his hopes dashed, afraid of committing to an idea that wouldn't be realized. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair as John stared down at him.

"I thought - I might've heard - "

"Yes."

"And - really?"

"What do you think, John?" he said, almost exasperated - mostly at his own inability to properly think. His mind failing was the last thing he ever wanted to happen - and yet John was quite capable of making it do so spectacularly.

"Well, I don't know - I mean, you're always so mysterious about - "

"_John_."

John looked at him for a moment before splitting into a grin.

"Well, I love you too," he said resolutely. And Sherlock held the nonchalance on his face for a moment longer before a giggle broke it like china vase. Then John was giggling too, and Sherlock didn't care a bit if Mycroft was watching through his cameras, or Moriarty's spies were watching through windows as they giggled like schoolgirls in the living room of Baker Street. The web would be taken care of in due time, Sherlock would see to that. But for now he was going to deal with the one man that could rearrange his priorities - the infuriating, endearing Dr. John Hamish Watson.

* * *

><p>AN: There, I'm done. I'm through. Good Lord, that was a long ride... thanks again, all of you. And please, let me know what you thought of it.

Cheers!


End file.
